I, Rialto

James Aitchison

Before the Silver Eyes,
there was nothing.

I was raised up, a palace in
a bleak power-poled main street.
My face ornately plastered,
my sides without adornment.

Then came the Eyes, two of them,
hidden in a distant turret,
carbon rods fed into their bellies,
their cloudy breath piped away.

Here came my worshippers —
the pop-corned mob, eyes agog,
into my sacred temple festooned with gilded
splendors, seeking their rightful places.

Wide-eyed flocks in a sea of importance;
sprocketed wizardry spooled through my Eyes
depicting occurrences, hurled immense
onto my canvas below.

After the Silver Eyes,
there was nothing.

They gutted me.
I, the Rialto, became a skating rink,
and then a carpet showroom.
But no matter what humiliation they
inflict, it’s like Bogey said,
I’ll always have Paris.