The Show

by Michael Palma

The voices trail away and the movie ends
With the camera moving further
And further away, the trees on the ridge
Filling up the frame,
The people growing smaller and more lost.

Then as the lights come up we sit and blink,
Not wanting to touch each other,
Not wanting to think, wanting to be
Inarticulate and fluid,
Heaving, finally bursting from the tree.

We separate and shuffle along the street.
We stand at the curb a moment
Watching the rain, watching traffic flash.
As we fade into the night
Sprockets propel us, light shines through our skin.