For the price of admission
I can see the future
or revisit the past,
mingling with the beautiful people
in suspended perfection,
between palpitations of cheap light
and priceless shadow.
Reconciled in the dark
to a million worlds without end.
Then turn out the stars,
Fleeting glamour fades
with only lobby cards
and torn ticket stubs
to frame my collective memories.
For those trips never taken
and roads yet to be traveled,
with the clackity-clack shutter
Set to twenty-four dreams per second,
American cinema, I thank you.

©Nick Zegarac

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