After the Stars Go Out

The last click is smaller than the room.

It travels from the switch
to the far curve of the dome,
where the painted stars
stay in their appointed places.
A blue emergency strip
runs beneath the seats.

The cleaner draws a ticket stub
from beneath the middle row.
The date has run to a blue blur;
colour transfers to her thumb.

She checks the red seats,
pushes each back until its hinge catches.
One takes a second try.

The projector cools in its black shell.
Inside, the fan lets go
of the thin note it held.
Dust shifts across the lens.

She brings the work lights up by degrees:
aisle, exit, workbench,
the long scuff beside the door
that the broom leaves behind.

She holds the broom still
until the last motor settles.
Then sweeps once along the seam.