378. AT SWEETWATER

AT SWEETWATER
There are sixteen huge homes along the shoreline bluff,
right where they ever were - when this was a resort, a
jaunt, a pleasure cruise away for the city's crowded masses.
Ah, but that was long ago. Now, there is nothing but the land
and the soiled sea and the soiled water and the great tanks
of oil and fuel. Storage, they call it. 'A tank farm', they say.
A plundering abyss of fire and flame and fuel so rabid
as to bite. The huge old houses still stand - in fact, now,
as I watch, there is one with thirty people in its porch;
having a party, singing aloud, talking ahead with
laughter and excitement. I am staring out to sea.
Someone else is strumming a guitar, singing
'Bye, Bye Love'. I hear: 'There goes my baby,
with someone new. She sure looks happy,
I sure am blue. She was my baby, that
much is true. There goes my baby,
with someone new.'
-
Cars are parked all along the fenceway.
Elderly people, mostly, are staring out
to the distance or walking along as if
they were tending a life-garden of their
very own - which of course they are.
-
Everything is growing around them, as
the fearsome grip of both anguish and
love holds them steady. The marshland
and reeds along here are their companions.
The slow and quiet lap of the water and
the boats soothes the tired mind. Soon
the sun will be setting around us all.
The music is playing on....'there goes
my baby, with someone new.'