These ladies in lacey socks;
Their faces, whiter than Christ.
They all light a candle now,
to hush
like the last sleeping breath
before an alarm of applause.
Now, by my own tears,
I am awake, clapping
with the pitter patter of rice,
spat to the ground like rain.
Within these ceremonies on stage,
under hand-tossed arcs of light;
You will find me
hiding beneath my bed-sheets,
dreaming of seven birthday candles,
six tapping pairs of shoes,
five wedding dresses—
descending from the blue;
And four youthful grandparents,
the three I never knew.
Two training wheels
on my bicycle—
and just one way
for me to die
in style;
Quietly in my sleep,
while the audience
makes their peace.
This life is over, it seems. Bravo.
Bravo. Not a dry eye in the house.
Life is but a dream. Etcetera.
Bravo. Etcetera. Take a bow.
Bravo. Take at least ten more—
for putting on
such a show.

written on 10/26/2010 by: Matt Kane