October 31-November 6, 2005: B.M. Bradley and Allen McGill

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Coney World Our summer bungalow worn, dilapidated on Surf Avenue Coney Island Narrow, shallow dark and shabby porch screens torn year after year Just blocks from the beach so good for the kids away from the city and its concrete heat Cotton candy sweetened air colorful lights the Cyclone at night Dirty sand – the Parachute Jump dirtier water the high Ferris wheel Littered sidewalks Boardwalk toughs sideshow hawkers the fat lady’s laugh Wheels of fortune Kewpie doll smiles five balls for a quarter everyone wins Tunnel of Love sailors on leave Tunnel of Horrors Merry-go-round Weekend hoards of subway riders only day-trippers but we lived there. Vacancy The house isn’t haunted just sad It failed as a home imbued with indifference then spite and at the end despair born of disdain. A “convenience” marriage bred inconvenient children enshrouded by the uncertainty of mere toleration. When the inhabitants dispersed the house — left empty and drained began to crumble. Until Proven The sun-dappled grass beneath a tree, a restful pause for me and my dogs Then groups of jabbering children draw near, making such noises the calm is soon gone. On spying my dogs a flock of them come to ogle and pet, to play and to tease My well behaved dogs, a tolerant breed, will put up with anything, even kids’ tugs. Names are exchanged with ages and such, some questions and answers til interest just wanes “Get away from those children,” an angry voice shouts “I’ll have you arrested, you pervert You’re sick!” “But, they came to me,” I try to explain “Sure, that’s how you work it,” he sneers, still quite loud “Get out of this park!” he orders “Right now!” “You go straight to hell,” I answer in anger. He pulls out a cell phone; a crowd is now listening My dogs have grown nervous, the eldest growls deeply “Molester of children,” I hear from a man Do I fight? Do I leave? The children look frightened. “I’m the kids’ teacher,” the man tells those near “These guys use their dogs to attract them,” he adds “They all should be strung up,” a woman exclaims “Or castrate the bastards ” A threatening fist It’s grown much too ugly to handle by now, the two dogs are growling, prepared to attack I have to concede though I’m pained to the core; just to slink away angry, humbled, to jeers Indignation is flaring inside me, but what can an innocent man do for safety but flee Since we’re no longer able to jog through the park, my dogs and I wander the streets at a stroll But the catcalls and taunts from the crowd on that day remain with me always, a victim, accused. The Cafe Santa Ana Rays from the morning sun flow slowly across rooftops to an ancient stone wall, where they descend to warm first the fountain’s summit, then ride its cascading water to splash musically in the waiting pool. Strains of guitar music filter through the cafe to accompany the fountain’s refrain; jacaranda branches shade the patio’s tables with filigreed patterns Books aligned on shelves patiently await the attention of interested passersby. Cushioned wrought-iron chairs are spaced across flagstones A crudely carved lintel of pink cantera, the sandstone quarried in Mexico’s hills, is set in the portal to the Sala Quetzal; it’s deeply carved date-1686 AÒo-the rest of it worn by time. Rebuilt from the ruins of centuries past, the Sala-or hall – coddles history, treasures, mementos of time The town, deemed a treasure of eras long past, may be altered only within the period, style and designs of early Spanish rule and time. (San Miguel de Allende, Mexico) Past And Present In the small shaded alcove of the outdoor cafe beneath fleecy fronds of a wide jacaranda, a fragile old lady, Andricilla by name, settles daily for breakfasts of sweet pastries and tea. She’s greeted by all as they pass by her table and waves with a smile, calling each one by name Brief chats are accepted, of weather and such, but no invitation’s ever offered to join. In the notepad at hand as she jots down her memoirs, occasional smiles will accompany thoughts She’s aware not at all that she garners the focus of patrons and staff wondering what she could pen: She’s ancient and fragile, her name’s out of history What could possibly be in her past that’s of worth? But that softening of lips and the spark in her eyes, has convinced them that she’s led a life unsuspected. With silver-dot earrings and white clouds of hair, a pink-cheeked complexion caressed by time’s hand, the impression she offers of gentle serenity is offset at times by her outbursts of mirth. The pages are filled and they’re watched day by day by regulars wondering what they contain While no one would dare to ask or to peek, many bets have been placed, many arguments waged. When she pauses to think and her eyes overglaze, staring off from this world while caressing a flower, there will sometimes appear just a glint of a tear     then all breathing stops–til the present returns. No family visits, we think by her wishes, or maybe there is none, but she’s never alone Our greatest concern is the day she won’t be there, in the small shaded alcove of the outdoor cafe. Afternoon In The Piazza As the sun crosses the Piazza San Marco, so too does the music from the string quartets progressing from cafe to cafe with the cool shade of the afternoon Protected from the glare by centuries-old buildings, white-clothed tables await aficionados of cappuccino and gelato. Lovers stroll at leisure, hand in hand, barely aware of the Byzantine splendor of the nearby Basilica Pigeons peck at discarded crumbs from the tabletops, moving swiftly only of need Gondoliers sit and wait aboard their bobbing craft, red-tabbed hats topping off their uniformed whites. A pair of Carabinieri struts smartly across the Piazza, impressive in slick uniforms and shiny black hats of the Napoleonic sort Intent on conversation and a passing signorina, they garner the attention of everyone in sight Laughter from the waiters is carried with the beckoning smell of coffee, to join in a myriad of accented tongues Suddenly a church bell medley peals throughout the city; workers emerge, pigeons flutter to life–evening begins