Flickering Bulbs of Broadway

Broadway's lights are dying. The feverish frenzy now relinquished into the quiet hush that usually precedes the passionate climax. The little boy that doesn't know the words but feels the yearning of raw humanity on a glossy wood stage is growing old and away. The years are turning over and the burning bulbs begin to flicker.

His painted face is melting under the hot lights of scrutiny and cost cutting. Hours spent perfecting sequins and lines in front of unforgiving mirrors never noticed except for the amount of dollar bills it comes out to. His heart is spread across the stage as his memories and life began there. He has found his home and what keeps him alive is monologues and soliloquies mixed with passionate embraces that are the Cat's meow of Rented Chicago.

Her feathered entourage is drooping with dust and age. Her rosed cheeks infused with rouge to blend with the false snow are smeared. Her mind drifts to her little girls eating tuna from the can in a lonely two bedroom apartment with heating bills two months overdue. It'll be all right 'til tomorrow, she promises herself as she gracefully swoops across the stage. But her mind doesn't agree.

The letters on the half-lit sign are dangling down. The paint creases and chips as the old stage shifts its never-ending day into night.

Broadway is dark tonight.