Fountain of Youth

Fountain of Youth

Smokers sat outside on the porch
wit, wisdom and conversational drift.
Watching the parade
of tourists, buskers and artists.

I'd sit with the painter
sketching my notes.
A truly perfect street
to compose jazz poetry.

Saint George Street
leads straight to the Spanish fort.
Now a tourist attraction
of Cosplay settlers.

On to the Fountain of Youth
down a long road
of cotton fields and peanut patches
as far as the eye can see.

Take a sharp right
down into Florida.
Over the black water
of the Suwannee River.

Over the blazing miles
the shimmering white light glows.
The red clay country roads
become white silver sand.

Down south on Saint Augustine Beach
near the oldest city in America.
Crumbling coastline on 1997
before they paved it all.

Sand lions
snap up ants.
Minnows eat
mosquito larvae.

Cut across some dry yards
to the beach.
Stop and look
at the abandoned sailboat.

This happened then
and I expect it happens now.
Wrapped a bandanna around my head
to ease my feverish brow.

This was the scene
the reality.
I was soon welcomed in
to the party.

Connected to a scene
but it did not last.
A complicated dream
too heavy to transcribe.

Went down South
near the Fountain of Youth.
Where the gypsy lady
told Ponce the truth.

Once they met
and he looked into her eyes
Ponce was interested
in finding the surprise.

I'll see you
I'll be seeing you
if I use my head
I could make
more changes.

You need more than luck
in this rank affair.
Out of the blue
straight from thin air.

Going back in time
back a little ways.
Back to 1997
and those glory days.

I'll be there
watching her on the rocks
an angry old man
in a motor boat.

He was there
we were all there.
Working in the little store
seemed to suit him.

I have a role
looking into the past.
Those days I thought were over
since I knew they wouldn't last.

Ever since
I don't know when
she was getting the habit
smoking cigarettes again.

Don't take your heart away
such inclimate weather
in your charm.

I poured us both
a Captain Morgan.
We toasted each other
sad and warm.

Rode down with Danny B.
in a U-Haul truck.
With a few extra dollars
feeling filled with luck.

Going down to see the
Fountain of Youth.
To look around
for the slightest bit of truth.

Interview with the poets
on Flagler radio.
The reading for the deaf
with Miranda signing the poems
as I read them.

The school or the deaf and blind
was down on San Marcos Avenue.
Miranda had been both
a student and a teacher.

I walked by any times
but never did go inside
the Ripley's "Believe It Or Not!"
which was also on San Marcos.

Riding down
that old country road.
Danny B. pointed out the window
and gave a quick history lecture.

Between 1513 and 1763
Florida was a Spanish colony.
No place better displays
that lingering reality.

Across and then down
through the blood soaked fields
reminded me of Manassass.
Killing fields
man's natural occupation.

Where a seasonal battle
was fought.
Once a year one side
would attack the other.

As we rode past the field
Barfield explained the history.
English against Spanish
control stayed intact.

Don't make confusion
change of weather
comes a change of heart
now take a new space
don't go away.

Never decide until
looking back on it in hindsight.
Laughing crocodile
least of his concerns.

There begins a psychological
brow beating.
Not many can or will accept this
life is too short.

The walk to the beach
was just a few blocks.
Passed through every day
like a youth in the dark.

Up to watch high tide
up on the deck.
Writing down the scene
the sea a crashing wreck.

Back at the reading
liberal hearts were bleeding.
Nag Champa and weed smoke
floated in the breeze of the deck.

To look for miles across
the Atlantic Ocean.
Watching for the high tide
to come in.

Then he describes the
avaricious predators.
Listeners in the tent
feverish in the Florida heat.

Spacious daylight
in the courtyard
in the center of town.
First sight to be seen
crossing the Bridge of Lions.

On top of the world
watching high tide.
The world started
so when will it stop?

Back then we lived
down on the beach.
Music from the seaside bars
drifted across the dunes.

I used to walk by
the wax museum
walking over to see the
blind painter
Sherwood King.

Sherwood could turn out
about two oil paintings a day.
Sometimes three
when he was hyped up on whiskey.

His lovely wife
was quite a muse.
She drank and swore
was a lit fuse.

Down a few side streets
to the poetry gig.
At Behind The Forest Pub
hippies laughing
dancing a jig.

Sugar Mama
set her sights on me.
One more way
to make it happen.

Too much of the drink
and too much debate.
Brought an end to the scene
it was a matter of fate.

They had the big volume of poems
up on the shelf.
Carl Sandburg in the combat zone
poems about that toddling town.

Sipping slumgullion
on the porch of the pub.
Just over the hill
we could see the lights of the town.

I got a telephone call
that was undelivered.
It was an important message
that was not brought to me.

This was 1997
my first year in town.
I left with my tattered suitcase
on the bus
homeward bound.

-Will Dockery 2020