Goshen

by Kevin Swanwick

                                                                I

Seated between two hills

   north & south

sleeping at appropriate times –

   mostly free 

   from its wetland past –

capturing dew points along 

North Church Street

   on stubborn crabgrass

urgently marking the jagged joining

of ancient slate slabs

all strangely formed

   in strakes

processing to welcome travelers at 

   its ambiguous center.

We moved with attentiveness

across those wedged stones,

shifting over epochs

   crooked & precarious, 

markers for the habitual

stroller & child handlebar-gripper

whose body memory could marshal 

   phantom steps & pulsed clenches

striding or riding safely to church, 

the meat market or toy store.

But visitors beware.

Peopled early by workmen

cleaning catch basins before newly

car-driving villagers crisscrossed the

madly formed square;

   converging streets

   wrapping buildings closely

across from the sunken park of green

that softens the stark facade of steepled

   limestone history.

Harriman Square,

   a magical singularity

bereft of organizing traffic lights

& marked by its solid white bullseye;

   an unreachable point but

forming the statuary base for our

beloved sentry Chief Walker, 

   erect, white-gloved & spit-shined

   half-smiling, arms & hands

slicing the air

   with mechanical precision

bright eyed; his peppered police whistle

   bringing pitched order to chaos

while his august form draws

   every housewife's gaze.

                                                                   II

Outsized & punching upward,

holding a county seat, posing questions

about appearances & the oddness of

Rio Grande creek channeled & directed

out of sight in subterranean solitude 

   a sluice

quietly moving under our feet 

but peek-a-booing at grade

   near the end of Canal Street

where young boys who made plans 

to build a light raft & pilot through 

   its dark tunnel

were at last repelled by the stench of sewage

from the leaky history of busy pipes; 

hidden, rusting capillaries

   offering quiet witness

to organic hushed humanness

elderly & unattended, discharging slop

while above ground tattooed

   seasonal horsemen chattered 

   on the corner of Main

   & monied gents passed by,

   acting as if no one were there.

Courtesy ruled the dissimilar habitués

flinging curiosity aside with directed attention –

   horse grooms at their bars, 

dairy farmers at the hardware store –

   no time to stop & eat,

lawyers & bankers at Howell’s Luncheonette,

policemen strolling past the Occidental Hotel 

silently keeping order while scheduled train stops

announced themselves & cars halted

for the arm-folding railroad signal;

an opportunity for happenstance & short

   conversation.

The indifferent tracks formed rhythm & geometry

   & stretching along Green Street,

   home to black villagers,

connected two sides of town 

hosting both border & exchange 

   for melanin mixing

   or tentative greetings;

a coupling geography offering 

glimpses forward & from its

   proud purlieu

the mirth of gentleman John Bruen, 

black & brilliant, The Ole Hasher

who knew those tracks –

   man of prose & wisdom, 

dapper, handsome, pen in pocket 

offering chat as he gathered thoughts

   for the next newspaper scribbles,

local & universal, our brass tacks 

   village sage.

                   III

Revenants loiter

at this lowland crossroad 

   pressing immortality

where the French Canadian horse groom

smiled at the gum-snapping waitress

& others, stomach-ulcered & drunken,

stumbled across Greenwich Avenue

   to flophouse quarters,

fugacious & filled with wraiths from

   knife-fight pasts,

   murmuring unknown entreaties.

Through history-filled senses

listeners might hear,

between the metered jolts of 

   that oversized diaphone

   fire horn, 

youngsters arguing about trotters & pacers

and who is held champ – 

knee-raising Greyhound or 

well-hobbled Dan Patch, imagining 

   a showdown of equine gods.

“What if Stanley Dancer

could have driven old Greyhound too?”

Dispassionate doppelgängers at work,

evenly matched & giving open track 

to trotting & pacing kings,

letting the aged, pounded clay decide.

And across town a knowing horseman’s ear

   could discern

the dissonant rhythms of 

left-side hoofs to right-side hoofs

changing forward position & pelting the track

against the syncopated & symmetrical

alternations of an old grey stud.

What if & what about;

so full of remnant recesses

in its ghostly décor, is Goshen. 

                                                              

*   *   *

Kevin Swanwick  works in the software technology industry and resides in the Hudson Valley of New York with his wife Kathy, two daughters and their dog Dante. Kevin has returned to poetry after a long separation. His published short fiction and essays can be found at The Strange Recital podcast and Elephant Journal. 

The poem Goshen arises from the firsthand experience of a 12-year old horse groom’s assistant at the Historic Track of harness racing in Goshen, NY and the interpretive memory of a middle-aged man. Their reunions occur in poetry.

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