In Search of the Lost Indian Princes
As the sun goes down
on the sput-sput of lawn sprinklers
in St. Pete, the long shush
and dull clink of shuffleboard ceases.
The mammoth white-stucco hotels
begin to glow in the dusk
with a kind of vacant dignity.
I can feel foundations settling
those critical inches toward sea level,
window sills crumbling, moist
and soft as angel-food cake.
Ah, the insidious leisure of decay!
I’m driving a rented car
down palm-lined boulevards.
The traffic signals bob with wind
off the bay, their Christmas colors sad
and directing no one, surely not me.
After blocks of derelict sidewalk,
faded life-vests dangling askew
in murky storefronts,
I pull to a light beside
the Arthur Murray School of Dance,
the whole corner a wedge of light
sealed in plate glass.
The floor sways with gray-haired couples
holding each other with ease
and affection, turning in sure slowness
to a music I can’t hear.
Suspended among lurking
and disinterested facades,
they drift in an other-worldly glow.
The light goes green.
Ahead, the road extends
into the wavering salt flat of the Bay.
The palms, stooped ancestral gods,
gently clack their manes and nod.