Ionesco's Audience

Ionesco's audience
Is what I want.
That tiny enclave of 4 or 5
Meeting above that Paris bar
In the days and nights after the war.
Trying to make sense
Of what just happened.
Of 80 million dead.
Of a mentally ill narcissist
Who mesmerized the minds
Of civilized people
And charmed the Christians
Who did the killing.
Yes, that's my audience.
That's all I ask.
Like playwright Eugene Ionesco,
Who assigned accountability
To the absurdity of the Universe.
I need that audience.
Since sincere souls seeking
To make sense of the senseless.
Four or five to sit with me,
To commune with me
In an abode humble
And experience with me
The absurdity
In a rag tag "theatre"
Above some bar somewhere
To absorb living ideas shared by living beings.
To share our humanity.
Experience our vulnerability
So we be made complete
In quiet contemplation
Of the Sacred Spirit.
The spirit of Moliere.
The spirit of Sophocles.
Of Jean Anouilh.
Of Shakespeare, James Weldon Johnson, Arthur Miller.
In a Temple,
A template of theatres everywhere.
Small nests of nourishment
To revive the hope
Of things not yet seen.