The Imaginary Emporium of Mine

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Ever since my heartbeats

matched the tick-tock pulse of 

“The Syncopated Clock” theme

of the Late Show

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 their throaty, cocktail-party laughs

bone slinky gowns

and all-night tuxes

shadow lit by Hurrell 

diffused by plumes of Lucky Strike  smoke

armed with trigger-happy flasks

happy feet

swooning kisses,

and jazzy bursts of banter

that click and clack like 

the fascinating rythym of a reporter’s 

hot story keyboard

Others are 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.

There’s also

coin-flipping gangsters

crooning cowboys

twirling dancers 

gold hearted harlots

baby faced soldiers 

heavy-lidded private eyes

and fated romantics 

who always suffer from

a collapse of judgment

until love sets them straight 

with the wake-up call of just the

right kiss.

They are all my on-demand friends

each and every one of them

who are as dependable 

and vital as the stories 

that I need desperately to hear.

As the unpredictable people and

threatening circumstances

of my everyday life 

continue to

deviate from the script

wander off without direction

and fade out

without a satisfying conclusion

I find that I am happiest

living here 

in this 

Klieg-lit

imaginary emporium of mine

with its silver screen wall

flickering light

cinemaScope tenderness

and happy endings 

Which are always delivered

in the very dark

that I fear the most.

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