A Certain Remembrance
Before God decided to burn the place
down--as the good church goers
in my small southern town
claimed, its owner 'did things'
with the yellow haired lady
ticket taker, nights
when the movie reel got started;
things our thirteen year old minds
could only imagine, but
giggled about, hands over our
mouths, eyes wide with the possibilities.
A retired one-time Major Leaguer;
our townsfolk, his reluctant fans.
Posters of Jane Russell's cleavage in Outlaw
plastered the front showcase for months
'A disgrace', my mother said, but
he appeared in our church not long
after God held his bonfire,
pitching arm lobbed over the
pew, like a lover caressing his mate.
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
could've walked straight through without
so much as a second glance.
He never came back.
Was eventually forgotten by most.
That tilted, charred building wasn't torn down
for thirty years, at least.
A reminder, I suppose.
A certain kind of Holocaust.
A certain kind of memorial, too,
for days that have worn out their usefulness
and for dreams splintered and sent down
the river, spinning, for the next
lucky fisherman to catch.
Published in The Dead Mule 2007
Art: Poster of Jane Russell
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