Ode to St. George
Oh City of My Dreams
How can a city have such a grip on me.
You hold me hostage, unable to resist the grasp of your charm.
Brother Brigham designed your roads, organized and spacious.
You shun your desert upbringing and sprout green-ness in all your city blocks.
You embrace those who would have a cup at Dick's,
And those who would invade from the North to stay at the Hampton and shop at the Factory Stores.
You stand unashamed of your mockable Mall.
You attract the large national chains while making sure the Frostop plugs along.
Your climate is unparalleled.
Your winter cold never reaches into my bones, and your summer heat invigorates, making me feel alive.
You lie at a perfect distance from Las Vegas. Close enough that driving down is not an ordeal, yet far enough away to not be associated in any way.
You are a perfect distance from Salt Lake. You stand, seemingly as your own entity, separate and independent of Northern Utah. Provo is your Mason-Dixon.
You have but a single bar,
it's name is The One and Only. Karaoke is on Wednesdays.
You are rich in history and character; think of The Electric Horseman,
Bruce Hurst,
the Sun Bowl.
Many think you are bigger than you are. They start TV news stations.
You are self-sustaining. You welcome all your weekend and other-event visitors with open arms, invigorating your own economy. You offer them golf, sun, and the same shopping they have in their own town. Your residents stand so proud.
You have that intangible quality those other towns could never define or have.
I tried to leave you once.
Found myself in your cold, bland, Spectrum-sharing City to the north.
It was the Newman to your Jerry.
I was only able muster courage to go in the first place because of the short 40-minute distance.
Away from you, I lasted only three months.
You are not without your faults St. George.
You loudly sing the Siren Song of the Seniors,
beckoning them to bring their RV's,
bring their aging, gray-haired masses.
Come, you say, partake of our Senior Sampler and our Ranger Bart.
Bingo is only thirty minutes away, you lure.
And they come.
By the Buick they come.
Clogging our roads, beating the heartbeat of your several buffets.
I can't hold this against you St. George, you are only doing what you know how.
Forever will I cruise your Tabernacle Street,
be entertained by your goings-on, both as they happen and as 'reported' in your newspaper,
and enjoy and be grateful for your goodness.
That, my friend, is a Given.
A Mona Given, of course.
How can a city have such a grip on me.
You hold me hostage, unable to resist the grasp of your charm.
Brother Brigham designed your roads, organized and spacious.
You shun your desert upbringing and sprout green-ness in all your city blocks.
You embrace those who would have a cup at Dick's,
And those who would invade from the North to stay at the Hampton and shop at the Factory Stores.
You stand unashamed of your mockable Mall.
You attract the large national chains while making sure the Frostop plugs along.
Your climate is unparalleled.
Your winter cold never reaches into my bones, and your summer heat invigorates, making me feel alive.
You lie at a perfect distance from Las Vegas. Close enough that driving down is not an ordeal, yet far enough away to not be associated in any way.
You are a perfect distance from Salt Lake. You stand, seemingly as your own entity, separate and independent of Northern Utah. Provo is your Mason-Dixon.
You have but a single bar,
it's name is The One and Only. Karaoke is on Wednesdays.
You are rich in history and character; think of The Electric Horseman,
Bruce Hurst,
the Sun Bowl.
Many think you are bigger than you are. They start TV news stations.
You are self-sustaining. You welcome all your weekend and other-event visitors with open arms, invigorating your own economy. You offer them golf, sun, and the same shopping they have in their own town. Your residents stand so proud.
You have that intangible quality those other towns could never define or have.
I tried to leave you once.
Found myself in your cold, bland, Spectrum-sharing City to the north.
It was the Newman to your Jerry.
I was only able muster courage to go in the first place because of the short 40-minute distance.
Away from you, I lasted only three months.
You are not without your faults St. George.
You loudly sing the Siren Song of the Seniors,
beckoning them to bring their RV's,
bring their aging, gray-haired masses.
Come, you say, partake of our Senior Sampler and our Ranger Bart.
Bingo is only thirty minutes away, you lure.
And they come.
By the Buick they come.
Clogging our roads, beating the heartbeat of your several buffets.
I can't hold this against you St. George, you are only doing what you know how.
Forever will I cruise your Tabernacle Street,
be entertained by your goings-on, both as they happen and as 'reported' in your newspaper,
and enjoy and be grateful for your goodness.
That, my friend, is a Given.
A Mona Given, of course.
posted by Colleen at 1:47 PM
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