| Friday Night At the Santa Monica Promenade I hear its mournful sound Beckoning in the distance So Faint I wonder. . . I push through throngs of teenage girls in spaghetti-strap tops and skinny leg jeans young men in pants belted below their boxers a homeless man huddled by a lamppost shaking coins in a paper cup around two lovers arm in arm past the buzz of the outdoor cafes with their chinking of glass and table chatter by the onlookers gathered around the clown shaping balloons into animals beyond the young boy, maybe ten years old, dressed in a tux too big for his body break-dancing to music from a boom box rusty and splattered with paint I do not pause to gape at the contortionist escaping his chains nor to listen to the woman with long braided hair Strumming her guitar Humming a melancholy tune But only stop when I see him— Yes, he is here Beyond the dinosaur vine fountain He stands legs apart with his bag and pipes Under the lit doorway of a store now closed The sound fills my ears And suddenly The ground is green The hills are purple with heather An ancient stone castle sits before me The wind, salty and wet Whips through my hair And brings a thousand voices from the past I see their kilts and plaids And hear the names of those before me Stewart and McMinn My eyes grow wet with the foggy mist My heart swells with feeling For a hidden part of myself I do not know People ask me if I’ve ever been to Scotland And I don’t know what to say Because I’ve been to the Promenade in Santa Monica on a Friday night And heard the bagpipes play By Beckie Weinheimer |
