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.


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