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
