The Last Dozen Oysters on Duval

It starts blocks away, on the half shell
at Monty’s on the boardwalk, then winding
wooden piers past cruisers and cats,
two-masted old schooners and rubber rafts
to Front Street and a single slice of key lime,
the meringue melting into the tart yellow
before moving on and a left turn toward Eden.

It hits you like the wind, a cool slap of life
twirling in lights, music and the infinite
scents of a restaurant row. A blonde singer
reminds me of someone I should have forgotten
but just can’t, that long morning
starting in the dark, the faint glow
of a cigarette and the hint of light
lining a wooded horizon, stars dimming
as the door closed and the cigarette
settled onto the ash tray, its final embers
lighting her breasts in an inviting sheen.

But the song fades and I walk past
searching for more than old lovers,
and the blonde never sang like Caney could.
Further down the street gravel blares
from the Bear-Bottom Club, tobacco and beer
may have eased it a bit, but no, nothing
was there, only echoes, forgotten dreams
and the last dozen oysters on Duval.