Ybor Afternoon

YBOR AFTERNOON

by Robin Shwedo

© Robin Shwedo, 1995



Ybor -

even the name evokes memories.



On a grey, wet and rainy Sunday,

the air so heavy,

you can almost see the water droplets

suspended in air

in a heavy shrouded mist,

I drive there.

My son and his wife, my friends, live there.

He has called;

“We’re ready when you are.”

I’m to pick her up, then meet him “in town.”

The drive is not long

over battleship grey, shimmering water —

on a dreary day,

the only real color being

the head and tail lights,

the bright red car ahead of me,

the electric blue one next to me.

In half an hour, I’m there,

knocking on the door.

The house appears

deserted,

but in actuality

houses three or more in the dim decay.

The door opens slowly,

then wide.

“You’re here!” she exclaims.

She had no way of knowing I was on my way;

besides no lights,

there is no phone.

There is a loud Thump THUMP THUMPING

from a house nearby,

blaring reggae music,

as if the noise could shake some color

into the area,

the rain away.

We talk in hushed and raucous tones,

depending on the swinging mood,

then head out to meet up with him.

Turning the corner to the main drag,

we are bombarded by cascading lights

draped across the street as archways,

waterfalling down light polls.

Even if it were not December,

it still looks like Christmas,

lights and hustling noise

bombarding the senses.

We cruise along,

looking at the brightly lit shops,

the neon signs appearing as colorful islands in the grey cold air.

We find a parking space,

leave the warm car,

and brave the chill

where we wait

among friends

and crazy,

harmless

strangers

for him to show.

The sky darkens,

deepens,

closing softly as a velvet cape.

When finally he arrives,

we are ready for coffee;

the specialty shop,

close by,

a warm, brightly-lit hole-in-the-wall,

has a brick wall inside,

café tables and chairs with candles next to the wall.

It feels comfortable,

as though no strangers can arrive,

only friends.

We debate on coffee flavors

before deciding on hazelnut cinnamon,

with poppy seed bagels and vegetable cream cheese,

which we greedily consume

at a table by a window,

where we watch the parade of window shoppers

wander by.

Finally,

it is time to leave;

I drop them off at home,

feeling scared, depressed,

empty,

at leaving them in a cold,

unlit house.

And yet,

it is their first place,

their leaping-off point.

And so,

I turn the car toward the interstate,

see the line of tail lights heading into the

grey and grainy misty night

and head for home.



Ybor City is a historic section of Tampa, Florida. It was home for many Cubans and Italians, with many cigar factories; for many years, it was also home to artists and the avant garde. Several movies and TV shows were filmed, in part, in Ybor, including Cop and a Half (with Burt Reynolds).

My oldest son lived in Ybor City several times. It was after a visit with them that I wrote this poem. It is in my book of poetry, titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.

RAINY NIGHT

RAINY NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Rainy night.

I’d planned to stay home,

sealed against the cold drenching.

As luck would have it,

an old friend changed the night

with his call,

steering me into the downpour.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs someone to listen,

a warm flannel shirt hugging the inner workings.

Traveling

to pick him up,

I wonder if he wants so much to go out

as to have someone who cares,

knowing someone will brave the rain.

Everyone,

it seems,

needs a hero,

a warm friendly face.

On the way there,

I tense as the car tries to slide.

The road is slick

and doesn’t give much traction.

Up ahead,

a light turns red,

sending long fingers of light

reflecting toward me.

I slow up,

trying not to skid,

begin to lose, then steadily stop.

Rivers of rain

snake down my windshield

as the wipers swoosh back and forth.

This is a long light,

prone to give new meaning to the term

“light year.”

He’s given that to me, our private joke.

As I wait,

I look around.

Lights reflecting everywhere:

red and green stoplights,

neon reds, yellows, blues and pinks,

apartment and store windows

all bouncing off the pavements,

shimmering,

swimming in the puddles

and wet.

Light change,

I ease forward.

The car slides,

then catches as I ease off.

A block,

then another,

a third,

and then,

on the fourth (and two lights later)

is the brownstone that surrounds him.

The third floor is his;

high enough for a view,

but not too high.

This evening,

we’ll sit in the window,

watch the view,

talk,

and maybe more.

We decide I’ll stay the night;

no sense going home

in the driving rain.

In the morning,

I head home before work.

The dry daylight

is a different world.



Don't we all want someone who'll brave the weather for us? This is from my collection Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

SUMMER NIGHT

SUMMER NIGHT

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1985



Summer.

The heat makes skin sticky;

we are sweet cakes

of sweat and powder

by mid-day.

In bed,

you turn towards me;

your quiet, gritty arm

drapes across me

in sleep.

You moan,

chasing away some night vision.

We walked this evening,

watching the sky turn its kaleidoscope colors.

The lights came on in the windows,

people singing their night songs:

"Go to sleep, my little ones;

Go to sleep, the day is done."

We bought some coffee and chili dogs

from the corner vender,

anxious to close up shop

for the night.

Crickets serenaded us home.

Soon,

fall will arrive,

and with it,

change.

The babe within me sighs,

and stretches.

Soon,

he will share our lives.

I savor our last alone summer.



Written at the end of a hot, humid summer. This is part of my collection Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life, currently looking for a publishing home.

Surreality

SURREALITY

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Driving home from a surreal afternoon,

the lights on the bridge remind me

of strings of pearls,

glistening,

glowing

against the grey velvet sky.

There are few cars ahead of me,

spaced apart,

their taillights like sparking rubies,

following the sensuous curve of the bridge.

Glancing when I can to my right,

the distant headlights on the north bridge

spanning the bay

are like diamonds,

glittering on their moving strands.

The pavement slowly drifts toward the left,

pointing the car into the soft sunset;

the clouds have parted just enough to turn

pale pink

and

peach,

soft as worn flannel,

drifting into the wet grey rose petal clouds.

Almost as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings,

the liquid colors turn,

becoming pale yellow,

pencil-sketched clouds

turning to charcoal.

The rise of the bridge pulls me towards the sky,

then slowly,

gently

lets me drop back to earth.

Maybe Van Gogh saw the world the way it really is,

swirling skies and all.



I wrote this shortly before writing Ybor Afternoon. There's just something almost magical about the lighting at sunset, especially if one is driving on a bridge with lights reflecting off the water underneath.

This is from the book Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP

RAINY DAY, FROM A COFFEE SHOP

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



Sitting here,

on a stool,

in a coffee shop,

watching the rain

snaking down the window,

pouring down,

smacking hard the road,

I feel disconnected,

vaguely alone,

while utterly attuned with all of life.

The dream-like state I’m zoned into

is like an old movie

black-and-white

Casablanca, maybe,

or something of that caliber.

Inside the shop is cocoon warm,

fogging the windows

slightly

which,

along with the rain

slithering down the windows,

makes the passing world appear surreal,

in a wavy

watery way.

A woman attempting to cross the street

carries packages

and a large umbrella;

it resembles a large flower:

ochre and gold in the center,

orange petals radiating to keep one dry,

while the bright green handle

is anchored to her hand.

People,

scurrying up and down the sidewalks

and across the streets,

are arranged in layers of brightly colored rain garb

over everyday clothes,

while long black, brown and grey trench coats

protect business suits.

A small child pulls loose from a parental hand

long enough to stomp and kick

splashingly

in a puddle.

Cars inch their way down the avenues and roads,

mains and alleys,

avoiding shallow lakes on road edges,

trying not to

slip

sloshingly

skid and

slide.

The various shades of grey

are like wet velvet

and water colors dripping off the pages,

streaks sliding down the glass,

dark around the edges,

lighter, soft and warm near the centers.

Slowly,

as the rain and cloud darkened afternoon

deepens into twilight,

bright and deep neon lights flicker

on

off

and finally

solidly

on,

their reflections dancing,

shimmering,

waving,

in the puddles,

pools

and wetness,

sensuous reds,

emerald greens,

passionate purples,

royal blues.

Cars haltingly

stop

and

startingly

inch

then

surge

along the roads,

headlights and taillights leaving long reflections

ahead and behind.

I lean towards the window

by the booth I sit at,

blow a puff of air,

fogging a patchy circle,

quickly drawing a flower

before it fades;

then,

leaning back,

I take a long

warm

drink of steamy cappuccino.

It’s amazing how cocooned

you can feel

on a rainy colorful wet day like this.



I drove cab for a few years, and wrote this while waiting for a fare on a cab stand outside a mall on a rainy day. The lights from the shops, the cars both in the parking lot and nearby streets, the people walking to their cars: all added to the mood of the day.

This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares.

I Wonder

I WONDER

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1996



If I were to suddenly disappear,

I wonder if anyone would wonder

where I was,

or if I was okay;

if anyone would ask,

“What is she up to these days?”

Would “Is she alive?” enter their minds,

and,

if so,

would they really care for an answer,

or would it be a rhetorical question,

similar in consequence and concern as

“Some weather, huh?”

And so,

quietly I begin to cut ties,

sure it doesn’t matter

much

to anyone.

Except,

maybe,

to me.



We all have days when we feel this way. This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares which is currently looking for a publishing home.