Circle West Cinemas

We had planned to break 

open the back door,

me and an assortment of faces 

from high school. 

No one would catch us,

body after body inching 

inside. We were ghosts 

in another abandoned building. 

When a movie theater goes under,

they sell everything

they can. All the seats were gone.

Curtains too. 

We walked into a decests 

home, forgotten. 

What took its place was rain 

puddles and pizza boxes.

One of those faces

I came in with 

spray painted their name 

crudely on the wall. Visible 

from the array of dust-covered windows.

We all laughed. 

Two others climbed 

to the projector box

to hold each other. Again, 

we laughed. 

Humid air made the walls

peel and bubble. I walked 

behind the counter 

and into an office.

The films I saw as a child 

were here — posters, rotten 

35mm reels. 

In there a closet, home 

to boxes containing toys 

akin to films 

meant for children:

the gem necklace from Atlantas, 

the ancient Mew trading card from Pokemon.

Everything mottled, covered

in ink and water. I went to 

move a box and the bottom 

broke spilling out 

maggots and roaches. Some 

took flight. I yelled, 

ran away eyes closed. I fell 

to the floor. The carpet was soft 

and stale 

depending on what 

my hands pushed 

against. Small movement

crawled up my legs

and I yelled again. My shirt catching

and ripping off against 

the warped office 

door frame.

Back out into the foyer, everyone 

was watching me

struggle. The two lovers 

rushed down

tripping on the last step. 

I threw my 

pants off swatting at bugs 

not there. When I finally stopped 

and looked at the black spread

across the ceiling—myself naked

in an empty, mold filled,

two screen theater—

my friends did nothing 

to help, did nothing 

to aid the lovers 

tangled and perhaps 

broken. Their eyes

wide, fixated on us

on the floor. Then,

like a choir returning

after a coda’s rest,

we all laughed.