The Three-Mile Bridge
(Across Pensacola Bay on a Span of Poems)
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
Bridge
From dawn to dawn to dawn
I amble on
yawning
rambling across
Pensacola Bay
Counting for the ump-teenth time
my one hundred and
seventy-nine
lily-stemmed
lampposts
(except the one
the semi
smashed
last fall).
So, the number’s odd, you see,
not all
even-Steven
as it
otherwise
would be.
Wet Bay mists dampen my underbelly
while one hundred and
seventy-nine
lily-lowered eyes
cower under a
spangled shower
of stars.
I wonder: what’s ahead in my
ad-lib
improvised
versified
sea-sprayed
shore to shore
Day.
REDNECK RIVIERA
G------ it’s hot!Skin cracks like
an old plaster wall.
Parched tires blister from thirst.
Radiators whistle "Water Boy"
instead of "Dixie."
Nothin’ to do ‘bout this Bridge
traffic jam except cuss
and pray for patience.
The pickup’s so hot back there
the kids and Grandpa’ll
burn their asses off
if they’re not careful.
Reminds me of that steam bath
in Hot Rocks, Arkansas,
that time we drove up
to visit Uncle Keith,
Aunt Effie, and the cousins. At P’cola Beach, Rednecks are
red all over with pink children
runnin’ around in wet underwear
throwin’ sand.
Tomorrow that College crowd’s gonna be
movin’ like zombie Hot Dogs
on Popsicle sticks over
at their tony Hilton Grand
Tiki House
Holiday Inn
The Dunes . . .
Why, they say the outside lights
at Motel 6 has all blowed out
on account of heat stroke.
G------ it’s hot.
Why don’t this traffic MOVE!!
gulled
Where's that guy in the shiny
champagne Honda
who lays on the horn
passin’ me sunnin' on
my Bridge rail mornings
scarin' the pin feathers
off my tail?
Ah, ha! There's the jerk below
Mr. silver streak
Mr. horn freak
Mr. flippity-fop
see the fluffy clouds
reflected in his spotless
Honda Accord’s top . . .
Operations check: his speed
my speed
tail wind lift
height
weight
vertical drift
trajectory . . .
Roger ready?
Red Alert on Pensacola Bay . . .
BOMBS AWAY!!!
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Book Details
About the Book
The Three-Mile Bridge
About the Author
Jack Beach is a product of the "breadbasket of America," the Middle West. Born and reared in Galesburg, Illinois (just far enough from the Mississippi to escape being labeled a "river rat,") his education ranged from Farnham Elementary, Lombard Jr.High, and Galesburg Senior High School, on to The Goodman Theatre, University of Iowa, and Western Reserve University in Cleveland, where he sealed his Ph.D in Theatre with a hefty Dissertation on Joan of Arc in Drama. By one of those fortunate quirks of fate, his first teaching position was as Assistant Director of Theatre at the University of Kansas in Lawrence. He held this spot for nineteen years, teaching Acting and staging plays from the Classical and Modern reps. as well as musicals and operas. In addition, he and his family traveled abroad extensively, and he started writing poems and stories on the side. Dr. B. (as he is known) was never completely at home in Middle America. He yearned for water (a Cancer) and The Deep South (fascinated with Southern writers). The chance came when he moved first to a teaching position in Atlanta, then deeper South upon retirement to Pensacola (with a little pad in New Orleans). Here he spends his time writing, reading from his works, working Crosswords, and carousing in the French Quarter. He says, "I’ve never met a Mardi Gras I didn’t like." This is his first published book, although stories and poems have appeared in regional publications -- notably The Emerald Coast Review.