A Pause during the Shooting of a Commercial

by Vincent R. Pozon

Everything is black in here,
even the air ducts are black,
men, in black, quietly appear
and then disappear, under
hot lights then in full umbra,
here in high-ceilinged barns,
black metal stands with black panels
and gobos as fronds, thin trees,
sprouting from the concrete floor.

They do not scrub these walls, nothing
is stripped away, thick as a palm,
they are layered by decades
of paint, stories and screams.

Put your ear against the wall,
scratch it with a nail, and wait,
you will hear quarrels between
directors and actresses
and ad agencies long gone.