the abandoned theatre

The ragged spider-ends of motheaten curtains touch a dusty splintered stage. I step over the creaking wood and look out to an audience of empty seats with their stuffing falling out. In the aisles lay discarded programs of past performances, some pictures, a bouquet of dried old flowers tied with a bit of frayed ribbon. The stage lights are dark and blank and I can't look at them for too long. I poke a broken floorboard with the toe of my boot and then walk to the edge of the stage and sit down. I used to trip on these steep stairs and stumble onto the stage. And I used to raise my voice and talk to everyone, back when I knew what I was saying. Now I sit here and watch the stirring in the stale air.

Out of the corner of my eye, for a moment, I think that I see a small platypus shuffling through the aisles, picking up all the lost and broken things.