We all stand there,
our hair slicked and gleaming
faces painted like puppets
cheeks of polished wood
eyes popping and lips cherry,
brushing our foreign attire.
Push a button
we wade through blizzard
throw a switch
a shadowed mansion chamber
pull a lever
it's springtime on the terrace.
The doors are cardboard
gin & tonics water
tomes in bookcase simply spines,
but if the feelings can unloose
they can wash over footlights
swamp, submerge the audience.
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