Inquiry into the Mystery of the Theater

I tap my wand to ready them.
Look with me behind my balding head:
Rows of faces in every pose.
Wounded faces, eyebrows, noses too.
Some obscured in the shadow under the balcony,
Some with fur collars.
Most of them drunk or dying of thirst.
Now let’s turn toward the stage.
There is a spotlit circle.
But wait, the pit is catching our attention.
Those may look like real instruments
And they very well could be.
Same with the musicians who wear sunglasses.
They check their watches with black hands.
Some are digital, acting on their own.
What else? All the scores you’d expect.
A scarecrow to keep the bats on their rafter.
A dream catcher on an oboe.
A man with his fly unzipped trying for the number
Of a violinist, who looked pneumatic.
She was on oxygen anyway.
Okay, on to the stage.
Oh, but the curtain needs description.
Navy blue crushed velvet, like a night sky
When the ground is covered in snow.
Those flicks of white could be where hands touched it.
Notice those deep folds, how weighted and elegant.
There seems to be some action on the stage.
But why look at that when there’s the ceiling?
Those are indeed twinkling lights.
There’s a history behind it
But you should have read the plaque in the lobby.
The lobby! So much there. The stage is a farce
Compared to where the crowd is born.