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At the Opera House

Mood: Relieved
Drinking: Agua

At the Opera House

The doors open
and we surge forward
like an invading army
swathed in taffeta and pearls,
bearing glossy programs like bayonets
(don’t underestimate the effect
of a well-placed paper cut).

Eyes set on an aisle seat,
rich old society dames
will disable you
without apology,
crushing your third left toe
with an elegant stiletto heel
that costs more than your car.

Stake your claim with elbows out,
and throw your mink stole
over four red velveteen chairs.
When the ushers bend and hiss
“No saving seats!”
fake sudden deafness and
do not meet their eyes.
(You cannot be defeated
if you never acknowledge
the existence of an enemy.)

The curtain finally rises
on tutus and toe shoes
and the audience surrenders
with the capitulation of applause.
So boorish in our rush to behold beauty,
we suddenly regain civility
when the house lights go down.

…but beware Intermission.

-Lo, so happy to be halfway through.

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