Dear Fairmont

 

For far too long have you slept silent.
Like the locomotives that once ran the rails along your river.
The world changed; with coal no longer King, you lost your steam.
The firebox no longer tendered, you draped your dreams and sank in sleep.
But we hear you, lady, waking; ready to rise again:
            In your Main Street vision, vibrant
            In your merchant morning meetings
            In your feast of seven fishes
            In your artists and educators
            In your festival of blues, where Johnnie’s still so good
            In your buildings re-façaded
            In your people, so determined
And to all those who doubt you, who speak of starts false-started;
Of actions un-enacted; Of visions never vaulted; Of plans in desks forgotten.
They are staring at a memory, less of substance than ideas.
They point to your caked makeup, your stained and stinking ball gown
They say the Lady’s faded; her best days in the past.
But we hear you, lady, bathing; shining up your skin:
            In the classes of your colleges
            In the brushstrokes of your artists
            In the bustle of your businesses
            In the beckoning of your bridges
            In the caring of your councils
            In the parables and gatherings
            In plays played by your casts
We won’t say you’ve held no secrets, in your belly, in your breast.
We won’t say your gown was spotless, even in your early days.
But the prejudice and pride, the dealings dark and crimes
Won’t diminish your renewal; but remind us of what comes
When the Lady is dishonored, and we serve our baser needs.
And we hear you, Lady, speaking, of the promise of your past:
            In the fort of frontier dreaming           
            In the mission, hope redeeming
            In the Y, to young men calling
            In the shelters, hunger feeding
            In the courthouse, law enduring
            In the cafes, thoughts exchanging
            In parks and theatres, celebrating
It’s now time to clean the firebox of its century-old coal
And find a finer fuel for you, Fairmont; one that burns clean and shining
In the twin turbines of Community and Diversity.
And as you stir, awakening, like locomotives, newly steaming
We hear your words of warning: “I can only be what you will make me.”

by Joey Madia

http://www.newmystics.com/joey/

 

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