A half-eaten corn dog sleeps on the velvet,
stuck to the seat like a desperate prayer.
It smells of old sweat and synthetic butter,
while the screen shows a desert where nothing grows.
I watched a single kernel roll toward the aisle,
a golden pearl in a sea of spilled soda.
Beside it, a discarded ticket stub
claims I was here for a love story I forgot.
The usher mops the floor with a grey rag
that has seen more sin than a confession booth.
He misses the corn dog,
bleeding a slow, yellow tear of mustard.