In The Theater Poem by David Welch

Outside you just see the marquis,
it's ancient lights all glittery,
amidst a city past it's prime,
hallmark of a more genteel time.

This was a movie palace once,
now mostly stage, theatric fun,
larger than Broadway's hallowed grounds,
though it's the only stage around.

Old New York has dozens of plays,
here just one means a special day,
the touring shows, when they come here
will always make the locals cheer.

The women like the musicals,
and a date night that's eventful,
the men don't get it, but they come
for ‘rewards' from girlfriends when done.

That's why I'm sitting in this seat,
enrapt woman right next to me,
the singing makes me roll my eyes,
but more often than not I find

that even if the play does bore
the theater itself is much more:
Gold chandelier perched up above,
casts light on painted gods of love

who frolic on ceiling plaster,
with eyes of cut alabaster,
above the stage, an ancient scene,
fawns and satyrs, a Grecian dream,

and gilt patterns around the sides,
just beyond where the curtain slides,
marble pillasters flank the stage,
frame the pit where orchestras play,

fancy seats with curving armrests,
splendid cushions in velvet dressed,
there's opera boxes up above,
but I just do not make enough.

In pressed white shirts and vests ornate
the ushers stand ready and wait,
a pipe organ warmed up the crowd,
harmonic tones of richest sound.

It seems something from days long gone,
shines light on where the world's gone wrong,
No post-modern black box so stark,
No building thrown up without heart,

But something built up to proclaim
that beauty should never be tamed,
even if Broadway makes me groan,
this building is art cut from stone.

Of course, I don't say this to her,
she wants theater, not architecture,
but it's what I appreciate
when dragged out on just such a date.