You’re awful good looking for 235. You wear your age well
I said and she blushed…a little
I found you along the way, on a journey from another place
Sailed under your face with the whole human race
You’re modest, I can tell. A woman of few words
That’s OK. I don’t mean to make a big deal
I just wanted to thank you, you know, for welcoming me and mine
We fled tyranny and you invited us in
We were tired for our journey, and we found rest on your shores
under a Golden Gate on a golden coast
She turned, a little surprised, methinks, to learn our route
not the traditional passage to Ellis under her green gleam
She tipped her glass and winked. I wanted to salute
but I just smiled and she smiled back
And I thought, what a great lady she is
sitting here with a glass of California Cabernet
I asked her if I could buy her a drink, and she said no;
that I and my kind had done enough
She offered to buy my drink, and I asked for bourbon
ah, Kentucky she said, knowingly
I prefer rye, she said, and I said, of course you do
And Chevy’s and apple pie and mom?
She stared at me and said
Cadillacs, Key Lime and baseball games with dad
but don’t tell anyone, OK? she put her finger to her lips
Her smile was infecting, and I felt warm and happy
as you do in the company of great beauty and intelligence
She dropped an arm down to her lap, and I noticed
a flag with some stars and red and white stripes
I saw some scars, little white lines on flawless skin
Are those new? I asked. And she flashed angry
for a moment and then it passed and she was quiet
I wished I hadn’t asked the question
Many moments passed and she said
There are many signs of aging in a republic
Iraq? Afghanistan? Libya? I asked
She smiled and held up the victory sign
These scars are not external, she said and showed them to me
The were, on closer inspection, like cracks in fine porcelain
age doesn’t set upon you like putting on clothes
it evolves within you, a relentless march of time
I listened, and she told me of the decay that comes
on the shoreline of manifest destiny
sipping Chardonnay at the end of the world looking west
at sunsets and green flashes and every unfinished dream
like civil rights and Mississippi and still-segregated cities
and Interstate 5 and modern slaves sold town by town
and stop for burgers and a shake near the levy at dusk
or Big Two-Hearted River and Brown Dog’s America
She rolled her eyes at my insinuation and show off
I’m not as easily defined by literature
Or perhaps Mr. Clemens might not have to wonder
about golfing or cigars in heaven or God
She smiled, and I laughed out loud
she bought me another drink
And somewhere off in the distance beyond the smoked glass
came the sound of fireworks and she winced a little
Are you all right? she didn’t answer me for a while
and I wondered about this place my ancestors envisioned
Will you excuse me? Of course, I said, and I stood
Such a gentleman she said, and smiled. Proud
Do you have to leave now? I asked
A lady like me doesn’t get to 235 without knowing when to retire
I looked at her for some deeper meaning, but she smiled
that disarming smile, and I bowed a little, unsure of formality
She turned one last time and said
Don’t ever forget why you came to these shores
I couldn’t if I tried. But it seemed hollow
and I knew I’d need to ponder that one for a while
Then she was gone, and I was alone in that bar in the paintings
the one titled “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”
What a lady, I thought, sitting there with my regrets
and my gratitude and a host of washed out Hollywood types
In waking up, I realized that she was strong and resilient and beautiful
the kind of thing that doesn’t go away easily or without consequence
And if I ever get the chance, I’m going to buy that lady a drink
and tell her about my kids and the things they want to do
I think she’d like their version of America and the fact
that I won’t ever let them forget why we came to these shores
T.A. Akimoff
July 4, 2011