Through all its years the name is the same

Though little else about it is, the marquee

Older than neon, hundreds of white lights,

Some always dark, a few always flickering

Over the window of the round ticket booth,

Empty glass where the movie posters were.

In old faded photographs, strolling behind

Horses and carriages and Model A Fords,

Smiling people dressed somberly in black

Entering the lobby door or crossing over

Arm in arm the cobblestone street.  Inside

The house lights would be going down,

Red velvet curtain rising above the screen,

Then the thin light threading smoky air

With the silent images of  a one-reel movie,

The slight clicking whir of the projector

Until the piano player sets the stage for the

Elaborate gestures of villain, hero and heroine.

Vaudeville, childhood Saturday afternoons,

Rites of passage in the balcony, art house

And art gallery, conferences and conventions,

All the long empty years awaiting its next

Resurrection, and all the while, if you listen,

Black and white shadows of the old players   

On a hushed stage, saying their silent lines.