Pensacola

Pensacola.

Spanish city
Of my youth,
The turnbed of my age in
Streets and sweat and pain,
Cobbled streets
And dirty lanes,

Docks filled with fresh fish
pulled by rough hands
Through callouses
Cut sharp by steel knives into parts
laid gill to gill
In Strong Wooden carts.

You city of blue bays
Rivers and sandbars
Old men with nets
Long hands and sharp eyes
spread at sunset;
Cast with open arms,

You love of my Summer youth
Will celebrate my Winter death;
Bold wind
Swept generations deep
Hold in your breath
These blameless souls,

Shipwrecked and soiled
Broken fleets
crossed over
mast bent hard on
Star- steered straights
Into safe bays.

Pensacola.

Your streets know my name,
Family names
On green poles
Celebrate their fame
Across small pebbled-tossed
and tidal lanes

Named and unnamed.
They razed your buildings
And buckled your halls
Brought the mighty down
And spilled their riches
In your Sounds,

But for all that
You rise again
Build dunes and hills
And fortress walls,
Barriers to dull
Deep ocean storms.

Wrapped in Water
You adopted me
And took me in,
I'm now your son
Voiced in Many Waters-
Etched in sidewalks

Trees and lanes,
Initials in yearbooks
That bear your name,
I dwell in old pictures
With grey-haired ladies ,
And children and babies

Who once like me
Were held safe in your
Sea -Arms
Water-songed and drowned to sleep,
Harmless
We lie, Face to face

In sturdy wooden carts.

Pensacola

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