sitting here now,

i wonder what the

fuck frank thought

as he stood in the center

of his life’s master work,

looking up at his creation.

the lines,

perfection in form and geometry,

the sound,

precise in both noise

and silence.

from where i sit

i can see fourteen

of them,

and they’re distracting

me in ways that the

people around me,

the mix of pretentious

orchestra fans and

bored, sleeping, resentful,

hipster girlfriends and

their pissed-off

boyfriends can’t.

from where he

stood, he must have

been able to see

almost all of them,

the total number

i don’t want

to think about.

looking around,

i realize that they’re not the

only lights in the darkness.

there are soft

white ones, illuminating

the stairs with the faintest

of light,

their goal? to

lead people through the dark.

these lights do much

to enhance the resplendence

of the place.

but back to

the distractions.

fourteen of them,

bright red lights,

four letters,

in all caps,

marring the perfection.

but thanks to those

lights, the people

expecting high culture

could flee the “rock ‘n’ roll,”

those annoyed hipster girlfriends

could find their

way to the bar,

and their boyfriends

now have a proper

metaphor for their relationship.

and me?

i just felt

bad for frank.