Pre-Show

The crumbs on the formica were starting to look like teeth.

I left the house because the sun was a blunt instrument

hammering the sidewalk into a white glare.

I needed the matinee, the air that smells like

old coats and artificial butter.

When the house lights finally drop, the room

sinks into a heavy, underwater blue.

It’s a relief to be invisible, to let the dark

press against my shoulders like a heavy quilt.

I’m holding this bucket in both hands.

An oily, translucent stain is spreading

across the bottom of the cardboard,

growing like a secret I’m not ready to tell.

The screen is still black, and for a second,

nobody knows I’m here.