Oct 2010
[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
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
