I am master of the evening lightshow.
Come 8 o’clock, sun gone,
The people belong to me & my
electric arsenal.

They quit their shiny surfaces & sharp objects.
Take off their pointing typing fingers,
abandon their minute-made stances
until tomorrow.

For now it is time to watch lightforms dance
color across glass & marinawater.
Watch them gather, nod to greet each other,
newly deferent.

Here the black-iris bulb blinks from a lightboat,
sashays into a beam of seagreen, soon to be engulfed
by that sandstorm of lightflecks—henna-orange &
desert-clay red.

Sometimes I pretend they understand
my show. That my captivating demonstration
might demonstrate something. To them.
Inside them.

But that is not the case. Not my place. After all
they stuffed the ARTSCIENCEMUSEUM into
my pistil. My petalfingers are padded with
glass skylights.

Yesterday I heard the small man in black
hissing into his handheld device. He wants
to make a deal. Wants to sell the Marina Bay
Sands Hotel.

If the deal goes through they will appoint
a CREATIVEDIRECTOR. What does this deal
mean for me. The towers gleam
behind me.

I am master of the evening lightshow.
Come 8 o’clock, sun gone,
the people belonged to me & my
electric arsenal.