When he stood
his knees shook,
shoulders bending in
the light of the credits,
letters streaming like eyes
at a memorial
scrolling names—
those who’ve crafted
a narrative we might enter.
There aren’t many left
to remind us
never to go back.
Not many left to say,
I’ve seen what
I’ve seen what
hatred can do.
Not many like
this old man
ghosted against
a fading screen—
he was the last
to leave the theater.