Poem by JUSTIN KARCHER
The Theatre District sleeps alone tonight
a hot zone spreading under the influence
under the radar, staying away
from others can help stop it
flatten it
an emptiness, mostly
what happens when all your friends
fade from your peopled canvas
so you’re left with just landscape
what happens when the roots are gone
but the trees remain
what happens when the heat is gone
but the sweat remains
everybody’s out of work for the time being
but we’re still working
just in different ways
dedicated stage managers on Main St
sweeping up germs
that look like disconnected Christmas lightbulbs
but this isn’t a holiday
it isn’t a snow day
they’re wearing Hazmat suits
plucked from storage warehouses
fossils from every production
in our lifetimes, all those plays
about the end of the world
it almost seems foolish now
doesn’t it? but don’t dwell on it
suddenly the stage managers are yelling
“Places, everybody!”
a herd of golden girls lost in the news
will eventually find their sun
but today’s not that day
half-naked doctors playing thumb war
inside a quarantined Holiday Inn
lonesome treadmills praying for feet
the music of their stagnancy
might be too much to take
but there are still baritones belting out songs
through open windows
let’s not forget the serenades
or scenarios that’ll save us
still
we must do what we can
saintly costume designers
dressing all of us
so we can survive the storm
and when they’re out of clothes
they’ll slice off pieces of their flesh
to clothe us if we need it
nothing but bones
when the clocks strike thirteen
then there are those of us trying to find
the right words for what’s going on
angry playwrights airing ten-minute grievances
on the backbones of green St. Patrick’s Day napkins
they stole from Party City
when the cashiers were too busy coughing
the coughs collected
by sound designers
who are also busy
flying over the city
while waving huge butterfly nets
trying to capture the sounds
of our distress, group video chats
car alarms
a feral cat chasing after the last roll
of toilet paper
which has escaped from 7-Eleven
wanting a new life
frustrated directors trying to stage all of this
on the hoods of ambulances that ran out of gas
and left abandoned by the government
a government that doesn’t believe in
paid sick leave or in a sun that’s icing over
or in anything really except for money
so we do what we must
actors preparing for roles yet to come
hanging out in giant communal urinals
floating like super-advanced spacecraft
in the paranoid wind
receiving the waste the world
wants to keep hidden away
they’re using it as inspiration
in this time of crisis
and when they emerge out of the flush
they’ll be stronger and realer than ever
the determination in their eyes
can flip the switch in a dark room
so can the eyes of the bartender
restaurant worker or teacher
lighting designers hard at work
armed with non-harmful vacuum cleaners
trying to suck out that glimmer of hope
when all seems lost so they can light the path
that we all must walk
what a time to be alive
oh melancholic set builders
going around collecting
all the emptiness from bar countertops
and shadowy tables
then running outside
they start building castles
out of the locally-brewed aluminum
and crowdfunded glass
where we all can be kings and queens
with healthcare and the promise
of tomorrow
where there aren’t dust mites in the box office
where dry mops in locked closets
aren’t forcing themselves to cry
so they can feel a sense of purpose
that sense of purpose, we talk about it
so much, don’t we? how we tear into dictionaries
ripping out the pages where “tragedy”
or “selfishness” appear then pop ‘em back
like Skittle-depressants, it’s okay
we’ll keep on keeping on
let us swap eclipses
we’ll put it in our pockets
a reminder that sometimes
brightness and darkness
can coexist, that sometimes
flowers don’t get thrown
onto the stage, but that doesn’t
mean they’re not growing
somewhere waiting to be plucked
and appreciated
imagine all of us suddenly transforming
into bumblebees and before flying off
we agree to love every wildflower
we come across