The Hookah Syndrome
Somewhere a theater is burning
as we go on drinking needles. For a moment,
we thought a rooster had crashed through the window.
Somewhere a tailor-shop is burning.
It burns within the theater, you say.
How can that be? We have always acted
our troilism on the silent stage. We just need
to start over again. With or without him.
We must go on sewing our hearts with feathers.
Or is too late? He has seen our true colors.
Wait, where are you going? You’ll burn yourself
in your own tragedy, or was it actually a
comedy? I don’t know. I’m just a tailor,
and so are you, so is he, so are we.