In the Glare
by Ray Greenblatt

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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