95: Gentleman

In the mist of dimming theatre lights
and frozen silent atmosphere,
the last few seconds drift away-
The doors are shut
sealed, airtight.

A figure creeps along onstage
with whining strings of violins.
Timpany rolls below our feet;
a tragic symphony. We ought to take
advantage of such moments but
the time strikes on and forward;
Faint chills in the air unnoticed,
the distant sting of old perfume and
Parisian soap imported.

The seat of velvet - red, demure,
The seat of all life's pleasures -
Sits empty tonight amongst the crowd,
One seat of two-thousand and twenty.
No one asks, for it's not in their place,
avoiding things that should be left to
ghostly January winds and the death of February.

There tonight, an old soul sits, unperturbed by heavenly theatre hymns.