I’m sitting in an empty theater.
Am I the only one who cares enough
that this won something or other at Cannes?
May as well drape white sheets
over all the other furniture
like the wealthy do
when they close up their homes in winter.
I’m just happy the film
doesn’t pack up its cylinders and leave.
But then art needs its graveyards
just like people do.
The actors speak in French,
that language of Flaubert, Rimbaud,
Renoir and Sartre.
Subtitles mourn for others
while they speak to me.
Next door, in this multiplex,
a superhero flick
is overflowing with noisy patrons.
The hero can fly,
has the strength of ten men,
but foreign movies bring him to his knees
A wonderful production
if I and all the leading critics
can be believed.
I’d applaud but,
with no one else around,
I wouldn’t know when to stop.