The Avalon Movie Theater
Kings Highway
1953
by Myron Ernst, 2005

“Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and
the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east….
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence,
others will see them….
From: “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”—Walt Whitman

That a white rooster would crow at news of  peace and war

That the awaited, Tiny People would never come to sit above us

in their pretend, dimly lit boxes

That an enraged lion with a head would roar in Latin, “Ars, Ars”

That a white-robed, bright Columbia was Mother-Virgin to the Jews

That Paramount announced that we too would walk high up in summer snow

on a summit somewhere       

That RKO was the emitter of all sights, sounds and thoughts electrical,

close and remote

That angels flew with seraphim, and cupids flew with angels

and seraphim

That Rococco was Moorish, and Moorish was Baroque,

Doric, Art-Deco and Augustan

That a hand would slip as slowly over a shoulder, as the Eurasian plate does slip in increments beneath the North American

That our body would lean as slowly into another’s as a tower at Pisa 

does tilt over The Field of Miracles, and ever closer towards the Ligurian Sea 

That a matron would be a derivation of the Latin—matrona; mater

That a matron would be a “dignified woman of mature age and established social position”

That a matron would be a “wardress in a public institution, such as a hospital

or a prison”

That a matron would be “a female animal kept for breeding”

That a matron would be a short and robust lighthouse with a  gold bouffant, 

a face in clown-white, and fleshy, carmine lips with an overbite of horseteeth

That a matron’s  wandering beam  would warn us away from rocks, shoals and shallows,

and other limits of the sea

That when the plates would yield at last; when the tower would fall

onto the Field of Miracles, the at-last kiss would be as much a mystery

as the warm, wet touch of a fish’s lips in the deepest deep

That what would be pulled down would be raised up

That the bare walls, their scrawls and  wounds exposed to the dry, dumb sun,

would be healed

That on a marqee, words and lights of all colors would cease to blink

That they would blink again in all their colors and in their sequences of colors.