WAITING FOR GALE OUTSIDE THE BIJOU
Wind blows and rips the posters.
Peering through the filthy glass doors,
I can see the ticket booth
but not the cashier.
I expect she's nothing but bones by this.
My grandfather remembers
when there used to be a piano player
at every matinee.
And sometimes an orchestra,
sometimes a chorus line,
and that was just as a prologue to the movie.
My father's recollections only extend
to the action in the rear seats.
They're always prefaced by,
"Don't tell your mother."
I wonder when they'll finally raze the building,
turn the space into stores or condos.
No beautiful memories of my own,
an ugly future is my best bet.
John reads "Waiting for Gale Outside the Bijou":
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John confesses: "This poem is inspired by my love for old theaters whether cinema or live. And, to my mind, there's nothing sadder one of those theaters that's shuttered because it's no longer viable as a paying concern. It's part nostalgia and part admiration for the kitschy decor."