Locale: Panquitch, high plains, one-horse town
in southern Utah.
POV: The Gem, movie-theater,
Above the marquee
A sign: recent,
neo-psychedelic, illuminated once.
The trim: spare, probably original,
a pathetic attempt at Alhambrian,
a failure at disguising the
bare-essential shoe-box design.
Doors: closed for good now,
though empty frames for posters and lobbies
still stare blank-eyed
into the VistaVision of a classic western sunset.
People watch movies on small screens now,
as RKO and MGM are filtered out of the air
through channels with other initials,
and from which it is easier to walk away.
The time: late October, almost Halloween.
Pan across Main Street to where:
constructs a spider web of rope
on his front porch
and tiny affable ghosts flutter
in the branches of a scrawny tree
in his front yard,
puppetmoths erratically animated
by the chilly evening winds
rummaging over the plains
from Bryce and the mountains.
His naive solitary quest for fantasy
in a bleak wintry world
tells me he would have loved
The Gem in its prime,
would probably have been seduced by (or in) it.
Now he weaves his own arachnid dreams,
delicate but strong as rope,
and probably more binding,
while the Gem watches with sightless eyes,
casting myriad musical reverberations
into the vast skies over Panquitch,
Poem & Photo COPYRIGHT 2010 by Ross Care