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Voices of Phoenixville
Phoenix Steel Mill
They say it’s haunted now –
It’s not.
I’ve been down there before,
On the way back from the trestle.
There’s not much left, just some old buildings.
The windows are mostly broken in – nothing we did,
Just from old age, I guess.
The buildings are mostly stone, I think.
Inside, the floors are all sunken in, - they were wooden floors.
Now there’s graffiti on the walls and stuff.
Lots of rats, too. I’ve never actually seen any,
But I’ve heard stories.
Anyway, the buildings are being torn down soon, I think.
There’s just hard dirt, kinda sand-like, all around –
No bushes, or grass or anything.
It used to be the whole point of the town –
Making the steel, that is.
We were famous for it.
Some of our steel’s in the Eiffel Tower.
It closed in the 80s or something.
Now it’s just here for show,
And so we can sneak around there without getting caught.
It’s a fun place. At least Phoenixville was good for something.
Somebodies
“Meet me at the Ladies’ Entrance, on Gay Street”
something often said, never seen
except maybe by the blind lady, who walks that path every day
I wonder if Mike Bike knows her, or has ever said “hi”
Or if she knows that his birthday is today
Those guys know - the skaters, the ones from school
People like Abdul know everything, maybe he’s seen
what it is that makes us wonder what’s happening today
The guy driving down the street in the red camaro every day
has never even been to school –
not ours, anyway. He’s always high,
but he’s never been on Gay Street.
I walked to the library the other day,
to look up something from history for school.
On the way I said “hi”
to a man looking for his wife – I wonder if he’ll find her today.
It’s sad, but I’ve seen
worse things walking down this street.
Like that old dead guy draggin’ his dog down the street
Neither of them have anything left, from what I’ve seen
And the postal man? He’s out there every day,
Delivering people their mail. He nods his head to say “hi”
to all the old ladies, and to the reverend who dropped out of school.
I wonder if he’ll save anybody today.
The couple holding hands that I pass every day
Always visits the owner of that store down the street –
You know the one, the old variety store. Nobody’s ever seen
That owner’s head held anything but high,
Even though he’s never been to school.
But hey, maybe something new’ll happen today.
A Victorian House
The
stairs
creak,
spreading their groan
from step
to
step,
down
to the floors,
s p r e a d i n g
like roots underground.
it climbs all the way up to the attic, where slanted ceilings
have nooks and crannies, and the roof is but a foot above heads.
An acute triangle watches over the backyard, well used.
Worn air swims through the house; circling the turret,
through every lean window, every doorway, every space.
A wraparound porch embraces the red character, decked with furniture.
Six concrete steps, directed towards the glass-paneled front door.
Chimneys emerge from within its depths, ridding the house of smoky breaths.
From room to room, dust settles comfortable
on old furniture, picture frames against the walls.
In the entryway a great staircase ensues, glossy and brown,
A grand piano off to the left.
Ornamental finishes, an old romantic touch.
Doorknobs of curvy brass, light polished chandeliers
Canopy beds with frills and a cast iron tub.
Outside – a freeway sidewalk, lined with squat round bushes
And rough velvet grass. White trim plays classical,
and steep shingles decorate with a hint of friendly spice.
The Marching Phantoms
8:45 pm Tuesday night, behind the football stadium
“Page 18, mark your dots!” a booming voice echoes out of the speaker. Seventy-one high-school musicians garbed in coats, hats, and scarves pull out miniature spiral notebooks and count off the number and size of steps to find their spot on the field.
“Set!” The drum major’s hands face the band in front of her; every head snaps to attention, horns up and ready to play. “Sixteen counts, with the step-off,” comes the order.
“One, two, one two three four!” The band takes off down the field, horns blaring, cymbals crashing, flags rippling, drums keeping a firm and steady beat.
“Okay, let’s reset this page, I want to take the tempo up twenty clicks,” booms the voice from the speaker.
“One, two, one two three four!” Sixteen solid steps, ten yards to the left on a diagonal. Cover down. Visible air rising from the ends of the horns, they shiver and sweat simultaneously. Imagine the heat of band camp: the sun beating down in the middle of the day, marching on the field of straw and dry, brittle grass, water breaks every fifteen minutes...
“Okay gang, set for a run-through.” The band finds their spots for the beginning of the show and tunes up.
“Set!”
“This is it gang, last run before tomorrow’s championships. For the next nine and a half minutes this is your only purpose. Make it your best!”
“One, two, one two three four!” Nine and a half minutes go by in a moment of still time as seventy-one high schoolers unite to produce the best sound of music possible. And they succeed.
Tap, tap, tap... tap, tap, tap... Seventy-one marching phantoms face field left in two lines berathing hard, marching off the field under the snare’s dictation.
Thunk, thunk, thunk... the thunder of the bass drums playing their cadence reverberates endlessly across the field, against the buildings, and through the air, the answer echoing miles away.
Reeves Park
Higher, higher! shrieks of laugher
back and forth, back and forth
swinging into the sky, soaring through air
mom’s hands push from behind
Tag, you’re it! running around
chasing after, running away
duck under the tag, twist around
hiding behind the trees
You look like a monkey! hanging upside-down,
held by folded knees, arms touch the ground
all stretched out, blood rushing to the head
looking at the right-side-up world
Hey, look at this! pedaling fast
popping a wheelie, racing along
crunching gravel, tires spinning, breaks squeal
wind blowing in faces
The- cat- in- the- hat... a book in the lap
hesitant speech, fingering the words
on a bench, feet swinging, sound the words out
memorizing slowly
Strike three, you’re out! a diamond of dirt & dust
round white ball with red laces, heavy aluminium bats
fingers wrapped around metal-link backstop
worn-in leather mitts
And now introducing... a bandshell stage
Live music, entertainment, nights of fun
Curved concrete, lights, showcasing the town
Gathering at the benches to watch
David Reeves, standing tall
presides over his changed town
a created vision, preserved in stone
keeping in his time
One square block: grass, woodchips, cement
Streets on four sides, a city within
Vernacular tastes, or an escape
One square block of locality
The Last Overture
flurries of dresses in the lobby
swoosh against the red carpet
chandeliers and
picture frames draw
the attention of
rash, individual groups
who are here to appear
at the Colonial Theatre
to say they were there.
swaddles of little ‘uns mock about
excited by the occasion
of being mesmerised
by a moving picture
that talks!
at the Kimberton Inn,
pedigreed gentlepeople
and their families
sit among shiny silverware
and white tablecloths
chatting about nothing
and everything
that means
all at once.
the water boy refills their glasses after every sip
to make sure they are kept
perfectly happy!
and then of course
back they go
to their lazy homes
in rows
of brick faces, plaster facades
all bland; white or cream or gray
with dark-colored roofs
and white box chimneys
that barely stick out
of the house.
square windows line up
along lazy streets
of heavy, stifling air.
in a town of
Speed Limit 25,
it goes to say
the roads
will take us
where they want to go
and that
in turns
and curves
and up down hills
the least
is often better
after all.
Copyright Mallery January 2003
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