They wait in line

on the rain-slicked sidewalk
beneath ponchos and hoods,
unwashed jowls dark with whiskers.
They sit upon folding chairs
arranged into squadrons
debating adventures
in a distant galaxy.

A rebel pilot tells war stories,
one outstretched palm pursuing
the other in a dogfight among the stars.
Two portly villains in black helmets
sit across from him, one tapping his boot,
the other waving a flashlight 
taped to a plastic sword.

The fans at the ticket window
set up camp a week ago,
bags of crumpled fast food
wrappers strewn at their feet,
a large white sign
dripping rain and black paint:
THE LINE STARTS HERE!!!
The crowd extends for two blocks,
then snakes around the corner
into a residential neighborhood
of brick homes and azaleas.

One warrior brags to another:
"I'll see all eight shows on opening day,
twenty four hours straight!"
His friends check their watches
when a spindly teenager appears
behind the ticket window.
Dressed in a white robe,
brown hair arranged into buns,
she unlocks and loads the cash drawer,
then checks the microphone.

Beyond the littered streets,
where engines idle in traffic
and vending machines stand full
of news about AIDS,
starvation, and falling bombs,
a Hollywood mogul
prepares to make good our escape
for two hours, twenty minutes.
We've been waiting twenty years...

Scott Speck
05/14/99