Make-believe

There's a movie theatre in this gaudy village

With this faux- carousel on top, inviting the stares

Of the overstimulated children as they stumble by.

One flash two flash red flash blue flash

Repeat, in the endless, generational cycle of

Purchase after purchase after affair after car

After affair after donation after feel-good-hump

After failing to make anything more than a

Sequined replica of themselves.

The cars gleam with souls cleaner than their

Own, but appearance, well that's the

Definition of philanthropy, and that is the song

From the speakers on the boulevard that

Creates the soundtrack of absurdity.

It drapes itself over over-done hair, atop

The pedestal-like men, waiting to be crowned

With fruit for their painting to be placed

In a forgotten hallway, always overlooked

And never looked through.

The kids, again, with their mesmerized eyes,

Not from paintings or gold or cars or the

Unseen man and mistress copulating in the

Back of Infinity, but the flashing colors

Of heaven. They are the ones that can

Get away with playing with fantasy.

But when you're forty, walking out into the night

In the village with a twenty-something

On your arm, and abruptly you see these

Children staring up, not at you, but at

The flash flash flashing behind your head,

Maybe you will realize then that you're

Not a kid. No, you are a man, and

It's time to stop playing make-believe.