The Arcade (poem)

I grew up at the Arcade--
no, not the nickelodeon sort,
though it had its reels as well,
I suppose--no, the one down on Calhoun,
at the corner of South Main.

My memory flickers on, begins to roll,
and I see its modest square face
looking west towards the Mississippi;
it was young then, so recently born
out of the exuberance
of the war to end all wars.

My mother and I shared
one of the luxury suites,
one of the seven with a private bath,
and I would help her make gin
in our four-legged tub.

Old soldiers would buy it
for a dollar a pint and then take
my mother out to dance at a club
on Beale Street and return after
flushed and smiling.
Her legs were pretty then.

Now, I hear they're razing
the old Arcade, its face scarred
and written upon, its windows blinded
with boards, its bones sagging,
as old man river keeps rolling on.
And my memory flickers once,
and winks out.