Before Anything Moves

The seats, they swallowed me.

Leatherette, or something close.

A smell: old butter,

disinfectant sharp beneath.

Then the drop.

The house lights gone.

Before the splash of sound,

the quick flash.

Just a big, black throat.

And me, in it.

Heavy. So thick, the air.

And those two red squares,

by the exits, low down.

Watching. Not seeing.

Like a pair of dead coals,

still burning,

just to prove it could.