OLD MOVIE DREAM

In the movie theater, giant women made of light overwhelm us.

                                                        —Elaine Blair

All night Charlie Chaplin plays
with a gun. While you think
you’re the star, you’re Cary Grant
until a doomed passing glass
truck reveals a just-not Karloff face.
You are right though—you’re being chased.

You don’t know why. You hear chase
music in the air, in a cab. It plays—
repeating tin notes. Hepburn’s face
is reflected. Things look brighter, you think,
forgetting her first name. Your glasses
slide down your nose. Cary Grant

never worried about that. No, Grant
even disguised, stayed cool. His chaste
kisses never led to sin. An empty glass
was only that. Chaplin’s still playing
with his black gun. What he thinks
is silence. His silver-white face

reflects no thought—like the huge face
of Oz asking you what wish to grant.
Your mind, blank as a screen. You think
slowly, mouthing words, remembering the chase,
the cab, a lost gun. Music plays,
merciless as mirror without glass.

A street stands empty. Somehow, a glass
of water appears in your hand. You face
your pursuer. You’re determined you’ll play
tough. More Gary Cooper. Less Cary Grant.
The deserted road gives room to chase
long shots and tight close-ups, you think.

Or maybe forget. Take a slow breath. Ink
bleeds from your pocket. She passes a glass.
Hepburn—Audrey, you’re sure. You know she thinks
you weak, but likes your sleep-soft face.
Her eyes show she prefers Cary Grant
or Charlie Chaplin, but knows you’ll play

the part. Your face will do. She won’t think
of Cary Grant. Just keep clear, brittle as glass
while morning chases you to the role you play.

Mark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses. He has also been a working poet for almost 50 years. An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He is very fond of baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka, Dante, and his wife, activist and documentarian Joan Juster. He lives in San Francisco, where he makes his marginal living pointing out pretty things. He can be found reading his poetry here: https://www.youtube.com/@markj.mitchell4351, and a meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/. His primitive web site now exists at: https://www.mark-j-mitchell.square.site/