THEATER

Utter pregnant blackness...
like the stuff we all come out of, and go back to, I imagine,
awaits, what a pompous uncomfortable word pregnant is,
the magical illumination of the stage by light
piercingly more real than sunshine
and the strutting projections of actors
reciting thoughts wise as a grandmother’s.

Art is here made moment by moment
and lost forever in seconds following
the speeches, drowned lights and fallen curtain
if, indeed, Mona lisa isn’t there after I leave the Louvre.
But I much prefer to believe
no curtain is ever the final one,
in spite of what the critics say.