by J. Kates
“If it’s December 1941 in Casablanca, what time is it in New York?”
Before the end of this week,
the world will change irrevocably once again.
Among rising flames, the foul obscurity of smoke,
floating bodies,
errors in continuity for a keen eye
(Here’s looking at you, kid):
wineglass and cigarette
window shades
a uniform
a dry coat in the rain.
If you concentrate on these,
the whole story takes shape around them.
Script and cinematography
so carefully crafted in each line and frame
make a different kind of sense,
if only a hill of beans.
Focusing on errors in continuity
changes the way you see things,
the world you think you belong to,
(Rick’s American)
changes the way I see my own life,
every other shot out of whack.
I sip my wine,
shake rain off my dry coat,
while offscreen just outside the louvred window
sirens wail, bombs fall,
survivors streaming for the exit.
Note: The epigraph is a line spoken by Rick in the film Casablanca, 1942.
Smoky Quartz 