TRAVELS TO THE SUN

 

A Midwestern ode to those Metros who slog

south . . . to find sun

wasting distemper shots on their dogs;

and

to those special few whose homespun grace

helped us learn

that Spring is more than a sunny place.

 

Expectations were high!

         It was March . . . and Spring was due

                  . . . on the calendar.

         de jure,

         If NOT de facto

 

We decided to act . . . to

         . . . Tampa with the temps,

         hit the trail, and travel back to

                  a Florida place . . . called Saddle Ranch.

 

We traveled south,

         left the FRIENDLY Midwest,

                  drove through southern HOSPITALITY . . .

         . . . and seemed to overshoot our mark.

 

For, while the weather said, “Tropical,”

         we met some kiesters,

         chill-winded Nor’easters,

                  who blew in with a cloud

                  covered Spring with a pall,

                           and fostered ill-will . . .

                           . . . and loud noises.

               

For suddenly sun had sounds:

         Horn blasts . . .

Making beach life feel like home,

         home on the RANGE,

                  home on the FIRING range . . .

                           of a city intersection.

 

Want to get picked off in the cross-fire

                  of honking horns and honked off drivers?

Ease away from a stop light.

 

It got worse.

 

Horns, not deadly or personal, enough

         Were focused . . . by loud

 

people . . . creating a din

         spewed from urban

                  lives spent wrestling crowds,

                           where rowdies

                           have their way every day.

 

         “You idiot!  Can’t you read the signs?”

         “F--- you, genius!”

         “I’ll Call the cops!”

         Enter more horns — cum blasto!

 

No wonder the crowds spit them out

         and sent them south,

                  bumper to bumper

                  blasting away

                  shooting lip from the hip

                           mile after mile

                           wild west style . . .

 

                  . . . until they settled

                           into their ruts,

                                    repeating the retorts

                                             transplanted,

                           where sand dragged them to a stop in the sun,

                                    adding outside burns

                                             to their inside ovens,                                      

                           extending to others

                                    their hellish hot city covens. 

                          

It’s possible that this was all too much                

for a first-time snowbird

         unseasoned, senses askew,

                  over-hyped illusions

unable to generate enough internal personal spring

to tune out the cacophony.

 

There may have been poetry in the voices there

Some were trying to communicate,

but they were strangers

and they seemed insistent

on trying to communicate via their cars

 

         we seem capable of merging lanes,

but not people

         traveling enclosed

                                                               in dueling vehicles.   

 

No wonder roads rage.

 

We did finally hit our mark,

         our Mark and Tracy Spring,

                  complete with alligator . . . and darts.

 

         Host and hostess

         with the “sodas” —

                  not the “pop” —

         drinks and paella all around —

                  it never stopped.

Was it warm?

         on the porch

         by the pool

                  anywhere we were.

And were we cool?               

         all, way cool,

                  especially when the cameras came out.

 

There was Hannah

         with or without a banana;

Emily and Alyssa never missed a

         cheesecake opportunity.

Uncles, aunts, moms and dads,

grandmothers and papa

friends, dogs,

Brie’s monologs.

 

We finally located spring

. . . in the midst of what we were doing.

 

 

Dennis Keefe,

3/25/03