Day 8

The Opera

The eyes of the
firing-squad
are aimed with
lashed
cross-hairs
for now we, the chorus,
all look like oiled up
black ducks in a row
awaiting the diva's
shrill descent in
her purple and pink
sequent gown.
Like a splash
into our waters
We catch it
assuming it would have
fallen, however, lofty
and long-winged.

The audience,
looking up from
their watches
now look
into our glassy
faces with surprise.
Eyes-rolling
back and then
rolling around
trying to make
sense of
gorgeous
simultaneous
voices.
Because
we are only the
chorus
we know they
are wondering what
100 somewhat
attractive people
are doing center stage
and not behind
the coke machine.

The basses drone on
and you can barely hear the
tenors, so the altos carry
all of the low tones
on their buxom
backs.
But the first sopranos
with delicate fingertipped
touches
give life
to sullen
depressed
sleep that
almost took them over.
And so now we catch
older women turning green
and
the older men
looking at us as if
we are younger
versions of their wives.