by Brett Rutherford
Newark, New Jersey in 1969.
I lived there, in student rooms
not far from where
the burned houses still smoked.
One Saturday I stood
outside a downtown theater,
scrawny white poet amid
bereted and tree-tall giants,
black men brimming
with gasoline anger.
Arms that had hurled
molotovs, bodies
that had taken a beating
and kept on coming,
pressed in the line
behind me.
I mind-read dark thoughts
directed at me, at what
might happen
if they saw me after,
but we were here
for one common purpose.
The marquee decreed it:
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD.
This was not to be missed.
I would sit with anyone,
anywhere, to see this.
It was that important.
I sat in my seat of seats,
fourth row, center.
All those I feared
were far behind me.
Not half an hour in,
the men began screaming.
With cries of "Oh my god!"
and "No, no, no!"
I heard them rush
to the exits.
When zombies ate innards,
I heard the sound behind
of muffled vomiting;
more footsteps retreated.
By film's end
I was the only one left.
I strode through the lobby
smiling.
