by Kari Wergeland
Pepperoni pizza
and a partial view of palm trees, boats
bobbing near the Casino posted
on one side of the harbor like a castle –
with no slots or gambling.
The round structure supports a vast ballroom
high above the sea.
White with a red tile roof,
the Casino is home to swing-dancing ghosts.
Beneath their nimble feet lies the domed Avalon Theatre
done up in nautical-themed Art Deco.
An organist would play live music
as Charlie Chaplin and other silent greats
flickered for the plush red seats
still in use for 21st century guests
wanting talkies.
When I walk the island,
I pass a pet cemetery
sweetly illuminated in the afternoon sun.
Wisps of actors, bison, feral pigs, and Mr. Wrigley
remind me of how things were different.
A band plays near the beach.
People in skimpy garb,
flip flops, and wide sun hats
stop to listen as I do
while peeking at turquoise water
where the Yellow Submarine sinks down.
The Yellow Submarine provides visages of tourists -
their noses pressed to the glass -
for the busy schools of red-orange Garibaldi,
Kelp Bass, Blacksmith, and California Sheephead.
My window doesn’t quite offer such a view.
There! The corner of one edifice
amongst a herd of lodging houses.
It belongs to a raven
who swoops to the Jacuzzi area
where blue & white striped
chaise lounges sit empty,
save a discarded piece of pizza
left by bathers whose loud words
swirled into my room
when I was trying to nap.
The raven carries
what is too heavy up, up—
but the slice breaks in two
and falls to the ground
like space junk.
Is the bird overly hungry
and trying to feed her young,
compliments of Antonio,
who also baked the pie
that oils the medium-size box
resting on the old dresser?
I stare at the red planets
spinning atop a cloud
of white cheese, nearly cold.
But when I reach for another slice
it tastes good.
The raven concurs.
With her curved beak,
the stately bird
tears two pieces into four
and flies them to her perch
with a view unlike mine,
of the Casino and the wacky rides
and those drinking
not far from the nature conservancy.
Maybe we’ve all learned to exist
in the frayed edges,
like a little backyard garden
serenaded by freeway hum.
Kari Wergeland’s work has appeared in many journals, including Atlanta Review, Catamaran Literary Reader, and Slipstream. Her chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts (Finishing Line Press), was a category finalist in the Eric Hoffer Book Awards. Wannabe Blue, her new poetry collection, was released through Cold River Press.