Matinee

THE violet spotlight has these many years burned out;
Where is he now, eternal tenor in white flannel pants?
Pristine straw hat, mascara and the bold sports coat
Complete with boutonniere to light his song and dance.

And where the Chinese acrobats in purple satin tights
Who tumbled through the air incredibly like amber toys?
Or friendly seal obliging with America upon the xylophone,
The grave-faced juggler, skillful but devoid of joys?

Gone, too, the exquisite soubrette with marceled hair,
Lovely against a willowed moon and Victor Herbert score;
Knife-throwers and the hobo clowns with baggy seats;
The dog who danced the minuet will dance no more.

Gone, gone, all gone, the songs of love and stars above,
All darkened now, the footlights, and somehow a pity.
But is he still alive, the pert perennial young man
Who sang against a painted backdrop of Atlantic City.