At The Empress Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Every town used to have an Empress. You'd walk in under the glow of a million dancing light bulbs, engulfed in the smell of hot buttered popcorn. Your ticket would shoot out from a tiny steel trap door at the box office. Load up on Milk Duds and Raisonettes. Then through huge, leather-upholstered doors and down the aisle into a temple of the gods: gold-leaf pillars, crimson arches, velveteen seats, and a glorious curtain made from acres of brocade. When the film started there'd be a pop and a hiss as the speakers settled in. Sometimes you'd catch the last of the countdown numbers on-screen. The previews were short and to the point. You already knew you'd be there for the first day of each new release. Then suddenly there they were. Hoppy, Gene, or Roy. And in a really good week, John Wayne. Man. Thank you, Mr. Pruchnicki. You've conjured up some terrific memories here. Happy motoring, G