Oscar
The feature is finis.
The dim lights come up.
The audience sloughs to the exits.
My movie, always ending,
skin and hair, all those cells that leaving,
make us new every seven years,
becomes part of an endless population
of scurrying crowd, swept up candy wrappers,
exiting coupes, of seats being refilled.
The sequels while technically
more sound, die quicker.
There is a smell of stale popcorn.
The crowd led now by orange floor lights,
seems tentative, lost, strangely morose,
as though this new feature,
including the edit on the cutting room floor,
is confusing with its hidden meaning,
will not be winning this year’s awards.
Craig loves the aesthetics of the paper and pen, has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Hamilton Stone Review and several dozen other journals.