The dirty love boat beached at Duvall Street's eastern end. All its voyages everywhere The Final stop. Key West. Castro refugees fled Havana Keeping boats afloat with prayers, curses And a lot of bailing.
Not one didn't abandon ship Once the dirty love boat stuck sand Not one them are here now And where are these pilgrims?
Not here. Key West The southern terminus of US 1 Two thousand miles south of Ft. Kent Just ninety miles north of Havana.
The Mariel Boatlift ended in the autumn. There never is an autumn in Key West. The refugees came by the thousands. Their abandoned boats are piled Atop other boats in the Navy Yard.
The hippies, homos, and tourists ignore the newcomers. They were transported by immigration to parts unknown Free at last To be detained in Arkansas. Deep inside the Land of the Free.
Key West is a hole in time. The town exists in many decades. I wander the flowered streets Flowing through times beyond my senses. Glad to be away from Manhattan And the cold.
My only conversation are with bartenders. They have had enough of tourists I stand at the end of Duvall Street I sit on the stern of the love dirt boat The wooden wreck smells of hope. I gaze beyond the bikinied teenagers On the beach To the oil tankers on the Gulfstream I stay to myself Stranger to all the strangers Ever watchful for an opening.
No comments:
Post a Comment