Box Office

Or... it's your show.

Photo by Kirill Fokin on Unsplash

The past:
    static in the mind's radio,
        yesterday's ghosts
            chattering through
                today's frequency.

Tomorrow
    dressed up as dread,
        wearing next week's mask
            but speaking
                in this hour's voice.

You, patron of phantom theaters,
    purchasing admissions
        to performances
            that play only
                in the mind's broadway—

The same actor
    in different costumes:
        Anxiety as "Then,"
        Anxiety as "When,"
            both starring
                in today's matinee.

*Curtain up*
    on memory's melodrama,
*Lights down*
    on tomorrow's tragedy—

While the real show
    runs unnoticed:
        breath in,
        breath out,
            the only stage
                that ever was.

Your wallet empty
    of imagined time,
        your seat reserved
            for a theater
                that burns down
                    each night
                        at midnight.