Hell in a Theater Attic

Flee to the attic, meet Anne Frank, scrawl your diary

day by day or minute by minute with a marker in hand

marking the peeling wallpaper.

158 killed

18 is the magical slope (if you’re into math).

Meanwhile, theater balconies terrorize the back of our heads.

Bullets push for center stage

“Look at me! Stop your folly.

Here I am. Look at me.

Look at my

hot metal skin

silver armor

swim

through red, white and blue

blood (sells).

Flee to the attic, I will not follow

there are no eyes to witness

up there.”

Hand-held hearts, unpinned and thrown

into faces – above the cellar.

 

How can I sit here in my bathrobe

watching funny TV

while the City of Lights is snuffed by grenades,

gun powder, bombs?

An entrepreneur enters the Shark Tank,

a terrorist targets a cafe.

Death tolls rise.

A soccer game hears booms (just the ball, right?)

Stitch the borders, close the Metro.

No one gets out alive.

“This is Hell.”

 

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