The Muted Creche
Florida is returning to the way she looked
Just before the sixteenth century,
The conquistadors swimming in their bloody
Bouquets and hang-over hard-ons:
All the lost tribes are showing their faces as
The hybrids of our new species:
Guatemalans and Cubans and Haitians and
Columbians,
Swimming up stream and making love like
A kaleidoscope lost in a
Sweaty, irrational poem: What would be a
Disaster from the white man and his college
Professor,
Except for the fact that these women are beautiful,
And the bring over priced lunch,
All the roundnesses of their body like ripe
Fruit,
Like the clichés of a lunch basket passed between
Business partners;
And they all have exquisite names with three or
More syllables,
Like mermaids or butterflies that have finally settled
And learned how to live forever
And to roller-skate:
Julie is a unicorn, and I buy guava pastries from
Diana for the rest of my life,
And the cicadas sing as they have always proposed
They have,
And the alligators grin because they still remember,
And the old forts settle,
The cars proceeding heedlessly,
While somewhere to the east the waves continue
To eat away at the throat of a cross planted there
By silver crusted men who cannot much longer
Afford to live behind the muted crèche
Of their endangered gated community.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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