SNOW BIRDS
(Isla del Sol - St. Petersburg, FL - January 10, 2000)
Copyright © 2000, 2009
Jason Lester Atkins
985 Fleet Drive, #347
Virginia Beach, VA 23454
All Rights Reserved.
* * * * * *
We walk,
my peers and I,
around our morning measured mile.
All paths are curved
like time and space,
to meet back at our starting place.
Some are single.
Some with mates.
We time the January sun
that breaks -
with half raised eyes,
we nod and greet,
obligatory, accented -
Good Mornings.
* * * * * *
We look alike,
we walking peers.
Those who gave the Adam's rib,
miss the support
and
bellys slide out
over belts.
Wives who dressed
their child for years -
now,
proudly dress their mates
in knee length
pastel pam-pooties
with the matching tapes.
* * * * * *
All paths are curved,
All curbs are trimmed,
circling our June flowers
in beds of winter sun.
The palms are placed
to catch the trades
and dance with turbaned bottle trees.
We continue past in practiced stride -
we children of the depression age:
(recognizing no class - but, cost.)
We earned our way,
saving the allotted thirds,
to fly south like snow birds
escaping December's descending walls of grey.
* * * * * *
Our contented stroll
around a lemon hibiscus hedge
revels,
a sudden, dream breaking stage.
Sitting beside a dark windowed van,
a silent security cruiser stands.
No "Womp" -- "Womp" - here.
No siren.
Quietly, slowly,
two black suits with stretcher pass,
rolling a small blanketed form.
We stop,
as people do,
to gather and to view.
* * * * * *
Alone, on a balcony
above the red petunia bed,
a slight and ancient woman stands,
with big non-blinking eyes,
gazing into the foul face
of eternity's visiting messenger.
I know that stare ...
(where eyes must close to see)
"Who is it," I ask?
A voice replies,
"my neighbor, he was out at six -
said good morning on the stairs."
"What's his name," I ask again.
"Don't know, never asked."
* * * * * *
Moving on like flies
forced from dead meat.
Feeling the flow up our spines,
where the ageless questions form.
Why, Mr. Death,
you sly old bastard?
Why did you?
Why now, pluck one
from this island paradise in the sun?
We stretch our strides
around a low white wall
where snapdragons shower life
with perfect colors of pure joy.
* * * * * *
We walk on,
my peers and I,
around our morning measured mile,
rejecting answers with an inward smile.
Some Information About the Above Poem
Lucille and I went to Florida every winter for 17 years to the same island. This poem is essentially on spot the truth. The "old dead guy" happened just as written. (Jason Lester Atkins - September 12, 2005)
Les Atkins Poetry Index Page
Send e-mail to Les Atkins