45*21

allowing that we know almost nothing
isn't it simple to deduce that we're mere mirages
captured in snow globes
we buy at novelty stores
We can't escape
and someone turns us over
It may be a child who shoplifts us
We are a captivated audience
and so we set ourselves on a course toward dreams
There is a blackout
and we see nothing
not even the imitation snow
We are able to pick ourselves up
and dust ourselves off
The EXIT light comes on
We are somehow back on the shelf
It is past closing time
You pull out a bottle of Makers
I remarkably have some broken light bulbs
there are ice cubes at our feet
we make a toast to being unreal