Floating toward corners

graceful only in the dark

like the slow, clandestine drift of clouds

lofting their billowing dresses like pitch tents

on cushioned seats

positioning themselves to the side of  flickering projector light.

Corpulent, spectral figures

munching in their hungry seclusion

savoring the buttery kernels

shrouded from the thinly veiled looks of disgust

risking for once their own riotious laughter

joining the collective sigh of the audience

releasing a vulnerable tear.

After the credits

they scurry out through

quick exits

like nocturnal roaches

lumbering onto the street

looking for the dark.

( published in the BOSTON POET)