Matinee

The Light
that ever was
passes through
the Prism of
Creation
into a billion
Fractals
that spread
out and
backward and
forward
until Time
has no meaning.

Fractals grow
heartbeats and
breath and
roots and
limbs and
fingers and
paws and
hooves,

the costumes
for the Fractals,
who were
never born,
will never die,
who love to
play the
tragicomedramedies
now and ever
showing at
that Theater
on the corner of
the Cosmos and
Broadway.

It’s a Monday
afternoon and
I’ve landed
a part in
the matinee
performance.

I play a
man sitting
with his wife,
in a small town
coffeeshop,
with a cappucino
and a chocolate
doughnut,

trading lines
with a teenage
barista
who understands
the need to
turn up the
volume on the
Led Zeppelin.

(Photo by Brooke Cagle; Unsplash)