Walker’s corral has no horses
in it. Like the ponds of paradise,
it has been emptied out, filled
in, and built up, but not for
silver nor gold, rather, something
concrete and basement-like; yet,
some thought the place
to begin would have been orbital,
so far from our old Main Street and
its narrow limits.
How close pest must be to poet
or the dancer that ran a musical
for those who aspired to exit town
pool, old grammar school—
holding tight in hand all swag
that offered such immense swagger
about town: ten-speed, high-top sneakers,
tie-pin, and ring. Then jumped
off the hood of a parked Duster and
into someone’s outstretched arms.
From boundary to boundary those high
walls collapsed into the deep end.
It used to seem limitless, a hike
through zones of flowers and weeds.
It used to increase width, length,
and success so valiant were its
garages. Now, even Mayor Worthy
wants his retirement far from such
diminished falls and attractions. Curbside,
he found a dime and brought it home.
Founders’ Day arrives. Mayor Worthy
sleeps late; Dr. Walker attends cats
and dogs. First, the Scouts go by
and then the teams, so many of them
and yet so few compared to prior
eras. Night arrives and no one
haunts cemeteries or woods. What
heritage we have has been passed over
and under so that we know our tradition as
one to which no one else subscribes.
Found and lost? Well, imagine Corvettes—
affluence—latest fashion; in short,
money. Torn down: Shop-Rite and
grammar school; Lyons Service Station
and that grand Tower of Pizza. Valentine
Creek trapped in a culvert, tapped for
nothing. The crayfish dried and died out.
Something shines bright at one streetlight.
Something reminds me that it used to be
home and this home, a house of wonder.