Show’s over. Pieces and scraps are swept by the janitorial staff, And the last stragglers make their way to the doors at the back. Children still hold the glow of the thrilling tale in their breasts, Even adults have respect for the flashing lights and dazzling show, All the imagery is still fresh, but everyone knows That the brooms and the black bags of trash Are marching. Exit here, The signage and the grey brick walls funnel the audience to the Real world, where they return, adventurers on the heights, And heroes in the fires of hell no longer. We feel the soggy tinge of filled up chests and little beads of sweat Or the crunchy curl of jeans that are as dry as our hands, And the road, and the faces of the drivers of the cars. Still, the janitors pick up the mess. No more do the speakers sing and the lights glow, Never again, or not until the next show. Days pass. There’s no show so the janitor goes home. We must wait for a time, be confined to our walls, The monotonous tasks, and calls separated by agonizingly Long, long intervals, so that we yearn for the calls and the little Mundane tasks. We wait for the calls and the tasks, and Wait during them too, for the calls and the tasks are just as Dull as we thought after all. Still the janitor stays home and we wait more and more. But one day, we wait no longer. Some hope, some event lies in the future… Called the festival! See. The janitor I envy, for the janitor goes to shows, and festivals, And there will always be another at the end of the week. The festival is a huge surprise! It’s a hoot and a cry. Still too, the festival ends, and the janitor picks up the trash. But out come the youngsters, so tired but more full of hope. They bid farewell to their friends and a little girl named Sherry Hops again into the family van. The sun having set long ago, Sherry sets her head on the window And her mind makes a dance with the thoughts of her friends. No words occupy her mind, but her heart’s so content, recounting her adventure With little surges of happiness that accompany the misty pink lights flying by. New to the city, the star bright streets and neon lamps are still as novel as the Shining faces of her friends, which already waver in and out of recollection. And with the coming of sleep, she is soothed into hope and love. Her little cousins babble in the very backseat and she is filled with absolute Determination and peace... For perhaps the last time. The janitor sweeps spilled popcorn into a dustpan, and sifts it into the trash. Little bits of plastic flutter in the cold night as the signs flicker off and only Soldier floodlights stand alone. No more customers remain, the vendors too have vanished. The last light in town peeks out his little staff room, No one cares if that one’s on. So that is it. The night is gone. The janitor takes up his broom and starts off, He stops, and looks up at the floodlights. Then he shuffles into the dark. The festival is over. And there won’t be another one Again.
