It was a flea market for a time:
second hand phasers, laser-dye T-shirts,
antique moon-hoppers, Monoserus sand mowers –
you name it, they sold it.
Then an intergalactic theater group took over:
Shakespeare on the cheap
with a fat green Falstaff
and a four-eyed Prince Hal.
Sadly, the Bard went belly-up.
A developer from Aldebaran
gave it the once over,
hadn’t the heart to convert
the site of his first date
with a four-armed female.
It stood vacant for ten Earth years,
lived on in people’s memories,
always accompanied by a tear.
The roof leaked ultra-violet rays.
It was overrun with bougarous.
Those tiny critters devoured
the 5-D screen.
A gang of Seyfert hoodlums
broke in and trashed the smart-seats.
The floating balconies finally crashed to the floor.
The chandelier holograms faded.
Then it’s back in my time machine
to the grand opening of the
greatest entertainment complex in the galaxy.
A crowd, a million strong,
made up of creatures from a thousand different planets
is crushing at the door,
anxious to be part of entertainment’s brilliant future.
Should I tell them?
I don’t want to spoil the party.
I keep history to myself.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.