Night.  A dark, starless night,
settles in with the chill
down close to the ground
swirling around the ankles
as if a snake, slithering by.

The leaves have fled the trees,
once their grounded home,
now free, in death, to fly
upon late Fall breezes;
a last hurrah
before the winter ****.

The air is clear, cold, crisp.
Nearly soundless,
save the whisper of the wind;
rustle of the leaves
left on the ground.
Barren trees murmur
as their branches sway.

As surely as the breeze,
the chill, the night sounds;
As real as the earthy smell in the air,
the scent of snow yet to fall,
as true as the flight of winter geese
you are here, everywhere
in everything, around me, within me.

Even within a dark, starless night,
all is safe, settled, calm.  
In the fullness of your touch
the warmth within me burns,
and chill slides away, harmless.

Lin Cava ©

The city falls away, gray, as I rise,
my ladies cozy in the glass lift – to seven.

Ten to four. Spot on. No need to worry.
You’d think it were High Tea – be late; no break.

Between five and six, the blasted thing stops!
Me, stuck in a fog, with the Barrister’s waiting.

Before they moved in, taking up all of seven,
I stayed in the mezz., tipping my ladies to the cups.

The lift jolts, jostling the ladies, rattling their tops.
I move out; cups, cakes and savories in rows, like ducks.

“English Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earle Gray”, I say,
wishing the solicitors away, in court today.

A pinched-face woman, aghast at her clocks, rushes in.

I made inquiries today; for the lease of a storefront next door.

Lin Cava ©

Up and down and all through the house,
Went the scampering of a little grey mouse.

Running ‘round the corner the furry thing belched.
“Oouu” he squeaked, “I should keep those things squelched.”

For the cat can hear the drop of a pin,
But against a cat, I don’t think I could win.

And as a mouse, I much prefer cheese,
Than fuzzy cat hide and chewy cat knees.

There are stories told, (I heard from the rats),
That one can go bald if nibbling on cats.

Yet I wonder about the gas they’d create,
Could it be as bad as the dog I just ate?

Now, don’t be upset, it’s not what you think,
It was only a small Chihuahua named Tink.

I was on my way to a meeting, you see,
With a cutie girl mouse who’d been flirting with me.

When out from behind a bush Tink did pop,
I got such a fright that I let my jaw drop.

Tink stepped on my tail; I had no way to run.
Then he gave me a yank, and I thought I was done.

I’ve heard you gain ten times your strength when in fear,
So I turned ‘round and ate him, and shed not a tear!

But, like most spicy food, he gave me such gas,
I could not dare visit that cute little lass.

And that’s when you found me as I turned the bend.
Good thing I’m not hungry; this would be The End.

-Lin Cava-
copywrite

[Fairchild Republic, Long Island NY]

A multiplex movie theater sits there now.
Behind that a row of common eateries;
an Italian place, a mattress store, a stationery.
On the corner sits a Chinese buffet,
always busy.

Around the bend, a computer chain-store,
one of those trendy places that serve
fast food and ‘sports’ under the same roof,
overpriced spirits with kitschy, sticky bar offerings
whose names lean heavily upon original drinks
that they are not.

Across the lot,
the newest outlet of a chain liquor store;
a shoe store; cell phones and ‘stuff’...
some empty stores remain.

The last leg comes around,
the home of a national office supply store,
its sign stark red on white,
and a big box hardware store,
clashing its orange in reply.

A faux aviation tower tops the corner roof
of a well known sporting goods store -  
the builder’s hat tipped to this place
as once it was.

Beyond the façade a small airport still operates,
its real tower the same as years before
its runways dotted with lights, surrounded by roads.

Cemeteries always do well by airports.
Silent neighbors don’t complain about the noise.
Grandma is buried there.  Every person I know
who has history here, has someone buried there.
They are linked together but separate;
one Catholic, one Jewish, another a National
with its white simple stones lined up
just so, row upon row upon row.

I don’t know why it is easier to stand here
in this lot of the disingenuous,
rather than recall
what that place of the genuine became;
left to crumble, left to slowly die.
For here was the home of Republic Fairchild,
now among the dead,
as those cemeteries know.

And in the lot,
places that call themselves restaurants,
an intentional misnomer.
The multiplex, a huge construct,
only places a minor footprint
upon what was once the parking lot
to a national achievement.  

The Italian place, the corner to the
buildings that housed the offices,
and behind, the hangars to the war planes,
built with honor
and pride.

Where I stand now,
the ground once trembled
beneath the rumbling power of jet engines
built to near perfection,
to almost impossible tolerances.  
Their roar still haunting -
recalling the sound
of the free and the brave

In sorrow I watched as the buildings,
behind chain link
suffered blows from rocks thrown
by those too young to care or understand.  
Busted windows, shattered dreams.
I saw the tarmac split under natures call to green.  
Intrepid little weeds grew through each lot
and along each runway line.

The service road, now public -
beside it, overgrowth
still hides the tracks and rails
that once delivered beds of covered secrets
to be tailored and trimmed,
riveted and polished,
tested and tested
and flown
above these skies,
above proud faces,
eyes squinting upward in the sun,
above this place.  
This place, as it was then.

Lin Cava © 29-February-2008