Reunion in the Sunshine City
We are a city of palm trees, banyan, and oak, bougainvillea, hibiscus
and yes, even kudzu twisting its green arms around us. In Williams Park,
Babe Ruth and Peter Demens play checkers through decades;
flying above, Tony Jannus circles and waves. We are a city
of sunlight, beaches, sand, the grand dreams we conjure and failures
we learn from. The well-heeled and homeless, lucky and lost.
We know the cost of neglect—work to fix it. Like Sarah Armistead
in 1913 who once shut saloons like Sunny South, the women
of WCTU, now tap pink toes at the bustling bars on Beach Drive.
Sarah Straub’s in the park with her nail file carving her name
in the bark of the Kapok tree, where a mockingbird sings to Bell
Tippetts, who sketches his wing, her parasol tossed on the grass.
The men tip hats as they pass Handsome Jack Taylor sipping
a cold beer at Ferg’s. They’re all here among us. We are a city
of color, made richer for it: Lakewood, Midtown, Highland Oaks.
The sun shifts every day on all of us; respecting who we’re not
shows who we are. This city, like every city learns from scars.
John Donaldson’s in 1868, when dark hands paved our streets,
tarred our roofs. Truth is Cooper’s Quarters and Pepper Town,
now found in the taste of an orange we peel together. We are a city
of murals blooming on buildings, glittering galleries, children’s blue
chalk on our sidewalks, parrots raucous in treetops. And there’s Dali
walking his favorite lobster, as Annie McRae paints fishing boats
out on the docks, their nets splayed out like a lady’s long tangled hair.
We are a city of lovers that doesn’t care if you’re gay, straight,
or both. The bay is warm, you can love who you love here.
If you’re lucky like Juan Ortiz, that love might save you. He’s hugging
Princess Hirrihigua, who freed him in 1536, mounds marking
the spot where they doused him off the spit. We are a city
of laid-back, welcome back, cool jack kindness grown thick.
Find us at the Saturday Morning Market, toss Frisbees to our dogs
at the Pier that will one day appear. Even Jack Kerouac’s back
reciting his poems, along with Bellona Brown Havens, and there’s
Nelson Poynter, pen neatly tucked behind his ear. They’re all here
toasting our progress. Doc Webb with his dancing chickens, hailing
brown cigars and sour-sweets, his mermaids waving their green tails.
January 23, 2016
