A poem-a-day protest against the threat posed to our democracy by the current occupant of the White House
Janna Schledorn
Pineapple Avenue
I
Pavement before me, I feel your slope and bend,
pot-holed, winding, narrow, prone to flood.
I drive your two lanes, two miles, north to U.S. 1, south to Eau Gallie Causeway.
I ride your stretch along the Indian River Lagoon,
parallel with Guava, Avocado, and Highland,
perpendicular to Riverdale, Sea Grape, Aurora and Law.
Crossing two unnamed creeks, old trail mimicking the familiar river,
weathered stretch of historic highway, Atlantic flyway along the mysterious river.
II
Street of woeful democracy, uneasy neighbors, rich and poor, new and old,
every old neighbor uneasy, every new neighbor uneasy, democracy beautiful and woeful.
The rows of old rundown shanties, coral, gold, lime, gold, cobalt.
The old and new mansions with names, Gleason House, The Libbyan, High Cotton.
The rows of mango trees beside the Hindu temple; some unknown denomination’s sign,
“Our campaign is to proclaim Jesus is the Key!”
The rows of school buses behind the old boarded-up school board building; the circle of Australian pines in the one remaining vacant lot.
The rows of pelicans and anhingas squatting on abandoned pier posts.
The astroturf lawn of the Spanish Revival, the untamed bougainvillea, ixora and Brazilian sunflower of the art deco, the mid-century ranch.
The friendly immigrant on a rusted sea-green Walmart bicycle, the tailgating shiny black Mercedes SUV.
The weathered man staggering from the familiar river with a bundle—clothes, food, tent?
The dog-walking exerciser calling the police, uneasy neighbors in this woeful democracy.
Street of no codes, street of public library, civic center, bar and Baptist church, two lanes flanked by Squid Lips and Ascension Manor, historic highway of high-rise condo, trending jazz club, the law office, the yoga studio, duplexes, one-room rentals, million-dollar Queen Anne Victorian, eco green golf ball, knock-down compounds.
In front of new High Cotton marble lions on three-foot pillars.
In front of old Rocky Water trailer park tipped over couch, broken nightstand, dresser drawers, last night’s Pick 6 lottery tickets.
Democracy rich and poor, old and new, woeful, beautiful, uneasy neighbors.
III
Avenue of memory where someone’s son has disappeared.
Where have you gone? Pineapple Ave was no home to you.
Old oak covered trail where we picked up shiny new copper pipe from High Cotton, flattened tire on our way over the causeway to bring milk and food to our old father during the pandemic.
Two-lane memory detoured off the once-closed Riverdale where the two-year-old in the back car seat cried, “But I like the street that I don’t like!”
Roll down the window of the old blue Toyota Corolla, down shift, look out the window at the river, the rippling lagoon, the pelican, the anhinga, the heron.
The silent sulky teenager riding home not looking out the window, not looking at the river, the sky, the birds, the setting sun.
Historic byway, Atlantic flyway, pavement of memories flooded with questions and sorrows, mysterious and simple joys.
Crank open the windows, smell the fresh-cut grass, the distant orange blossom, the dank, low mysterious river.
IV
O road that teaches toddlers to read taking them to story time with Miss Abby at the public library!
O quiet road that connects to causeway that connects to the beach, the Atlantic Ocean!
O road that takes daughters to fathers every Saturday!
O canopied road for coffee in Pineapple Park, wind and friendship on a Friday!
O road traveled by rich and poor, the day laborer, the nightclubber, the strollers headed to the family festival, the fringy art crowd another festival another weekend, young and old!
O road some take as a shortcut, tailgating!
O road, slow down, peek at the river! the sky hazed with rain one with the river!
O slow down road, leave the old Pineapple Inn, the undeveloped plot, the one-story rule!
Don’t repave the turpentine trail, the slaves seeking work, freedom, the fish camps, the midpoint, the pineapple coves and hopes!
O historic highway stay low, stay flood prone, let the river know the red tide keeps you slow, keeps you narrow!
O two-lane historic highway, meander still along the river, the woeful, hopeful river!
Janna Schledorn is the author of the chapbook Those Nine Days (Barnes & Noble Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in The Marbled Sigh, SWWIM, Presence, Adanna, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Phenomenal Women (Laura Riding Jackson Foundation Press, 2023) and Mother Mary Comes to Me: A Pop Culture Poetry Anthology (Madville Publishing, 2020). Schledorn teaches composition and creative writing at Eastern Florida State College.
Indolent Books and editor Michael Broder are back with another poem-a-day series as a creative response to the threat posed to our democracy by the current occupant of the White House. The plan is to continue for all 1460 days of the 47th American presidency.
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