You can count five homeless people in a city block. But in the theater, the lights are bright. Costumes strewn from floor to countertop to ceiling. Girls with painted faces and guys with mouse tails. Music for sugarplums and pointed toes. It seems a farce, sometimes. To put on black character shoes and dance a Party Scene, while outside, men wander in worn-in overcoats with patches the size of a blush brush—the big fluffy kind. But the ballet must go on, and the dancing is enjoyable, and the rich theater attenders don't seem to mind. I wish I could fill all the empty theater seats we're sure to have, with the people outside. Not the ones in furs. But maybe, that would be a sort of torture worse than letting them watch the affluent patrons arriving in their stretch cars. Or not. I'd like to let the homeless ones decide.