Missing Vallejo

I closed my eyes and yawned
the Carolina summer vanished,
my salty pastels hidden
beneath dead damp leaves
                                               the poets left the island
like migratory swans,
leaving no one to listen....
            no one to be heard
                                                 I look towards the setting sun
coming earlier each day,
imagining spoken rhythm
wishing I was in Vallejo

       but...............
there is no causeway
no Mare Island Way
that takes me to Florida
down to 818 Marin
                                                  where the coffee is hot
and the sandwiches nourish,
while the music and spoken word
rekindle a frozen a soul
                                                  I miss this place I've never been
needing the warmth of creation,
the voices of strangers speaking with a beat.