In This Imaginary Emporium of Mine

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IN THIS IMAGINARY EMPORIUM OF 

Ever since I was Late, Late Show little
I have lived in
A house bursting 
with shimmering strangers
Whom I have never met
And cannot live without.

They are the movie spirits
Who have shrugged off time and death
With throaty, cocktail party laughs
Drenched in bone slinky gowns
And all night tuxes
Lit by the light of Hurrell
Diffused by plumes of Chesterfield smoke
Armed with trigger happy flasks
Tappy feet
Swooning kisses,
And jazzy bursts of
syncopated  banter
That clicks and clacks like 
The fascinating rythym of a reporter’s 
hot story keyboard
They’re clowns
who can tumble in a windstorm
cling for dear life to the spindly hands of a clock
shyly tip  their derbies to flirty ingenues
And twirl their canes like a mini windmill.
They’re coin flipping gangsters
crooning cowboys
twirling dancers 
golden hearted harlots
baby faced soldiers 
heavy lidded private eyes
and fated romantics 
who always suffer from
a collapse of judgement
before love sets them straight 
With the wake up call of just the
right kiss.
They are my on-demand friends
Each and every one of them
Who are as dependable as a pulse
And as vital as the stories 
that I need desperately to hear.

As the unpredictable  people and
Threatening circumstances
Of my life 
Continue to
Deviate from the script
wander off without direction
And fade out
Day after day
Without
A satisfying conclusion
I find that I am happiest
Living here 
In this imaginary emporium of mine
With its silver screen walls
flickering light
CinemaScope tenderness
and happy endings 
Which are always delivered
In the very dark
That I fear the most.

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