The last critic says ‘bullshit!’,
yet he stays, with pencil and paper,
at every performance.
He needs a drink.
The fingers are nervous,
the cigarette flickers in the dark.
Maybe he is only
waiting
for the lights to go out
along the Great White Way
before he leaves.
The gun rests in the pocket,
but the balcony is just as easy.
The show is over,
the performances were empty:
But,
it must at
least be
admitted that
The Last Critic
does know
the quickest way home.