by John Stokes
The old man gazed long from the Sopchoppy bound Seaboard Air Line,
now bent, he once stood tall, wearing the stripes of gold from a distant time
as over black waters cold the steam train made its journey,
passing over the place as boy's they once swarmed to swim,
out to the moccasin infested rocks then on to the dock beyond.
The old man dreamed of dragonflies feasting above a dim football field,
a young boy tossing Dixie Cup passes behind home bleachers,
while on the field, Murray caught the pass, Coach Red Sanders
called the play for Walt with Bandmaster Birch preparing a halftime
with majorettes crossing batons in honor of Queen Spears court.
Stepping off the train he looked down the street for Revell's barbershop,
where the gold framed painting of the dogs playing cards was seen.
On the walls stained Stetson hats hung from buck horns as tall tales
of Grimes Bay bear hunts on frosty morns were told as the
wafts of Tonic Water on razor burnt chins mingled with cigar smoke.
But it was boarded over and closed. Gone too the rink over the river where
Mr Emory plucked his fiddle, gone even the Rudd's white framed house
by flowing well, torn down to make way for the Baptist Church, long
since split and moved west, only the lone Magnolia bearing witness to
where the old man once spent many happy times with Emory and Mary.
On the shady corner he stood in front of Florida Robert's frame home,
once a haven from the rising waters of the Sopchoppy river,
the half Creek town matron offering safety to the old man's family,
Ivory soap scrubbed, sunk out of sight in the quill-feathered guest bed,
the old tin roof holding back Hurricane Dora's awful dread.
He walked on towards Strickland's, unable to remember where
the pummy pile he played on towered, the cane juice boiling down,
the amber syrup forever held in comparison to Uncle Bert Roddenberry's,
he and Cora's mouthwatering cooking never quite matched,
the sweet taste only recalled, forever lost with their memory.
Back on Rose Street, he sat unnoticed on the wooden bench at Langston's,
closing his eyes, he saw Deputy Vause sipping from a Nehi out of the long icebox.
Looking across the street, he saw Randy and Nena entering the cafe.
At the Standard Station Johnny Bee pumped gas for Mr Beckton, the old sea captain
as Laurice gave a friendly wave to the Panacea bound passengers on highway 319.
Mingled memories rose like worms grubbed from Wakulla sands, swarming as
Yellowjackets upon Panthers. The final call from the station master stirred him
as he sadly boarded the evening return to Arran, Tallahassee and beyond.
Down Ochlocknee way the old Seaboard slowed to cross the river flowing south.
Arriving late that night, the old man disembarked and was soon forgotten.
To this day, they say if on certain nights you venture down to the dark waters,
while the moon is just right in it's rising, you can hear the faint whistle from the
old Seaboard Air Line lumbering its way to town, laden with the men in the golden stripes
staring long and contented out their windows, to the cheering from home bleachers,
to the beating of the drums, to the humming of Yellow Jackets chasing Panthers.
