50 Year Storm: 5 June 1968

Waked up early by a frantic
Tim, my road buddy:
“Kennedy’s been shot!”
Still asleep, thinking
“that was years ago.”

Suddenly I’m awake, “no!”
Stumbled to the TV room
where we had found refuge from
the first hurricane of the year.

Graduated high school and took off
hitch hiking through Florida
down the gulf coast
and up the Atlantic
running right into TS Abby:
she'd come fresh from the Azores
touring the sunny state.

We played tag with her as she
gathered reserve to become
a full fledged hurricane.

Tim knew a family here
north of Miami and
a visit turned into shelter
viewing TV coverage
of idiotic youths
pulled out to sea from
unfortunate dares taken
and we felt so lucky
in our dry comfort.

Now, the news repeated endlessly:
Sirhan shot Bobby at the peak
of his political aspiration
with Rosey Grier shouting
and millions of my fellows
finding hopes dashed to ground.

Suddenly our Host spoke out,
a lawyer who had won me over -
a role model - articulate,
intelligent, compassionate;
one who listened to an aspiring kid
aiming his own sights to the law.

Suddenly our Host spoke out
“Somabidge deserved it,
wish it was a jigaboo done it.”

The horror which had claimed me
and left me frozen, deepened
as I slowly turned to stare
at this bigot salting the wound.

I stood and returned to my room.
When Tim came in I told him
“I have to leave” as 100 mile rain
tormented the walls around us.

A true Friend need not say much;
Tim left and when I came out
he’d packed his own gear
and was waiting for me.

All that day we weathered
the worst storm either of us
had ever dreamed of facing
head on, thumbs out,
braced against street poles
hoping that the driving rain
would wash away the despair.

In my pack, getting soaked
was my worn copy of
“To Seek A Newer World”
which fifty years later remains
as it dried out, ragged and stained,
in the upper drawer of my desk
ever more worn than before.