I step outdoors outside myself
on a late autumn afternoon. Through
green shadows of the pine trees
that ring my mind, I spot
a glint of red cruising to my left
soon out of view. At that moment
I'm at the wheel of a vintage Corvette
accelerating as it swings onto
a winding cinder road that links
with a high-speed boulevard crossing
the bridge to Brigantine Island.
Top down my thinning hair catches
the chill breeze, like the yellow grass
bending on the marshland that barely
conceals a great white egret
stalking its prey, indifferent
to the moody laid-back Miles/Trane
blues exchange: magic of the gods
emanating from the stereo cassette.
Approaching the ocean the Corvette
spins out of control, rides a cushion
of clouds above the dunes, skimming
white caps like Yeats's sea borne bird,
following ancient sea lanes
over the eastern horizon beyond
the sea-hammered Boca do Inferno.
I light unceremoniously on the cobble
street of a Portuguese fishing village,
park beneath a palm tree near
the Hotel Cidadela, descend to the
underground bar. Jose pours me
a snifter of Capa Negro brandy, checks
the time and wonders why it took me
so long to return. I say to Jose
I never left, I got older.
Jose nods and tops off my Capa Negro
just as a plangent Fado singer
plucks her guitar and cries to me
the pain of long nights and
unrequited loves. My eyes sting.
The fire of brandy in my gut, I bid
Jose boa noite, try to recall
where I parked the red Corvette and
whence came the black wind,
the icy rain.