For far too long have you slept silent.
Like the locomotives that once ran the rails along your river.
The world changed; with coal no longer King, you lost your steam.
The firebox no longer tendered, you draped your dreams and sank in sleep.
But we hear you, lady, waking; ready to rise again:
    In your Main Street vision, vibrant
    In your merchant morning meetings
    In your feast of seven fishes
    In your artists and educators
    In your festival of blues, where Johnnie’s still so good
    In your buildings re-façaded
    In your people, so determined
And to all those who doubt you, who speak of starts false-started;
Of actions un-enacted; Of visions never vaulted; Of plans in desks forgotten.
They are staring at a memory, less of substance than ideas.
They point to your caked makeup, your stained and stinking ball gown
They say the Lady’s faded; her best days in the past.
But we hear you, lady, bathing; shining up your skin:
    In the classes of your colleges
    In the brushstrokes of your artists
    In the bustle of your businesses
    In the beckoning of your bridges
    In the caring of your councils
    In the parables and gatherings
    In plays played by your casts
We won’t say you’ve held no secrets, in your belly, in your breast.
We won’t say your gown was spotless, even in your early days.
But the prejudice and pride, the dealings dark and crimes
Won’t diminish your renewal; but remind us of what comes
When the Lady is dishonored, and we serve our baser needs.
And we hear you, Lady, speaking, of the promise of your past:
    In the fort of frontier dreaming
    In the mission, hope redeeming
    In the Y, to young men calling
    In the shelters, hunger feeding
    In the courthouse, law enduring
    In the cafes, thoughts exchanging
    In parks and theatres, celebrating
It’s now time to clean the firebox of its century-old coal
And find a finer fuel for you, Fairmont; one that burns clean and shining
In the twin turbines of Community and Diversity.
And as you stir, awakening, like locomotives, newly steaming
We hear your words of warning: “I can only be what you will make me.”

by Joey Madia — newmystics.com/joey