It was an opera in that everybody had grown fat
every movement was stylized and expositional
the faintest grin
the miniscule teardrop
even an emotion that barely registered came out over-inflated;
encircled in greasepaint, underscored by full orchestration, embellished by stiff and grandiose choreography.

It was an opera in that we yawned,
shifting in our seats, checking our watches, yearning for the curtain call.

It was an opera, but it was mostly life
in that it had no final act, ending or closure.