Flickers       (Poem 73)                    

Nothing was GRAND with our theatre

but the name of this hole in God's sticks.

Patron greetings from the manager

were as heartfelt as projector clicks.

A shoebox sized balcony of seats

importuned fifties' lovers to pet.

Passion exploded in guilt's dark streets,

caring not one damn for on-screen feats,

destroying all but forbidden treats -

whose babes did they beget?

The mensroom jokes were a gradeschool trough -

and its lone tap flowing cold or cold.

Three days would most films wind, then spool off-

good first runs were rarer than gold.

Now, as a boarded up town eyesore

paint and flashbacks congeal boyhood ground.

Kingsway now pimps on the Smallburg bore -

techno's 4 compartment pleasure store-

lacking quaintness of that one eyed whore-

about whom rich tales abound.

Copyright ©2003 Daniel Grey Taylor