So furl the velveteen curtains,
worn and patchy,
hanging 100 feet up in the rafters,
brushed to the side like hair.

Looking out, you can barely see the shadows
behind the spotlight.

A sea of people shift and shuffle
eagerly in red cushy chairs,
and they can't seem to keep
their arm rests from falling apart.

Your feet make the wooden floor groan;
the place is so tired.

And suddenly hands collapse onto each other,
and onto thighs to push themselves up;
applause beats the air, is thick and relentless,
and you're alone on the stage, beaming in cherry lipstick.