Sundays at the Paramount
Nostalgic
where rich and poor felt
they’d gotten their money’s worth
just to be there.
A grand theatre
with floating loges
and chandeliers,
and thirty-foot red velvet curtains
that opened and closed the picture show.
An escape, a reminder
that such grandeur did exist—
at least for a while,
if only in flickers and flutters
and leaps of imagination.
When my father’s belly turned to mush
and my mother’s radiance lost its luster,
when ducks no longer gathered
on the stagnant ponds behind our home.
When live oaks shrouded the house
from the bright hope of day,
and golfers quit the course
once green and sweetly mown.
When days were long
and summers short,
when shoes were optional
and money scarce,
our bare feet took us daily
into golf course ponds
in search of errant balls
we sold for a nickel each.
When truth needed no capital T
and handshakes sealed the deal,
life seemed safe and fair.
But perfection did not reside
in that brightly nostalgic world,
no matter how clever,
how forgiving time might be.
Dixon Hearne writes in the American South. He is the author of seven books of poetry and fiction. His work has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, as well as the PEN/Hemingway and PEN/Faulkner awards. His latest book is Plainspeak: New and Selected Poems. Other poetry appears in Poetry South, Tulane Review, Arkansas Review, Chiron Review, Big Muddy, New Plains Review, Weber: The Contemporary West, The Southern Poetry Anthology, IV: Louisiana, and elsewhere. He is currently working on a new poetry collection. www.dixonhearne.com
