The Millennial Pedestrian

The Bayman

In lawless times he roved Jamaica Bay.
From brackish coves he lunged, a Dutch corsair.
Rigging lacy, sails all crazy-quilted,
crew amazed with gin. His black flag snapped
and peaceful craft took white-waked flight.

In mother’s desk I found a yellowed card,
a photo of his lair — his cottage, really.
The family tree does not acknowledge him,
and though “Historic Homes of Brooklyn” shows
his little house, it claims he was no pirate:
a Bayman eking out his living from the clam.

The Dutch arrived here
 in a Reformation frame of mind,
determined to do well.
To farm, to bank, to earn.
To clam, if necessary.
The greening boughs of this old tree
must please them:
pleasant homes and careful lives,
a sturdy Dutch adherence
to the calm sea, the prosperous voyage.

Still, I dream a wild unruly ancestor
scudded into flat Jamaica Bay,
to steal fat kegs of corn, or bundled hemp
or cod. I dream the night skies shook with flames
of hulks he left to drift, to burn, to smolder,
beached on  Rockaway.

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 24th, 2007.
It's part of the Old Poems category.
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