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Intermission at the Opera

What is that art so seemly seen
in peacock feathers full of preen
with time between and in plain view
the play again with actors new?

What dream is in that faceless face,
powdered, painted, full of grace,
neck exposed, poised and lean
ready for the eye that's keen?

What is that chatter so profound,
in quiet voices deeply bound
with politics and private sighs ,
late-night news and endless cries?

Socratic methods, used just right,
may yet reveal some truth tonight,
but I would venture this wild guess
that underneath it's one big mess.

Mark Clement - Dec. 2003