Outside the abandoned multiplex,
closed now for maybe six or seven years,
the neon lights still burn, enticing us
to let imagination roam inside.
Do dead-eyed ticket sellers staff their cobwebbed stations?
Does villainously priced popcorn, mildewed now,
still lend its perfume to the fetid foyer?
Is Mel Gibson, not yet bigoted or bald, for ever
semi-humorously blowing away bad men who
deserve to die?