Mabie B Blues

My turncoat shoes speak through gauntlet halls-
Famous, semi-famous and
who–the-fuck -is-that-? black and whites

of this our distinguished division of performing-

My shoes stop their clacking,
Awed dead on gradated red carpet, the majesty of glass facading and my muffled outline lobby swallowed-
All there in river lights,
Reflecting of it-can’t-be-as-late-as-it-seems midnight.
I’m never sure if I’m in or-

I’m never sure
If raised voices pounding fists on Formica
means conflict
or rehearsal.

I fondle my worry-stone keys,
put on my best inside face-
after all I have access.
Refrigerator hums, heater clicks, the starting gun of the coffee maker switch-
I have a place in front.

In front of the bulletin board
amorphous with announcements
soliciting barefoot techs and waiting-
Mirror doors contract with swarms of seeking bees
Art Share swooping in and
swallowing the lobby whole.