Me and Ginger

Thunder off the ocean blurs my vision. I think I see among the white caps a school of mermaids trailing a mackerel boat into shore. A gull and I turn to watch a fisherman reel in the tide before the storm lands. I taste the brine as wave on wave jumps the jetty. At the moment the dark clouds collide, I race the rain to the shelter of a dance pavilion. A couple who resemble Fred and Ginger are dancing the carioca to ragtime. As I approach I see that Ginger is a redwood coat rack and Fred is a blue cape hanging on the rack. I slip into the cape and do a little jig across the ceiling to a catchy Cole Porter tune I can’t quite identify. From early night a whistle beckons me and I glide on my magic cape through an open window to the deck of an ocean liner. Ginger waits. Prompted by moonlight, I don my top hat and tails, twirl my cane, wrap Ginger in my arms, and to a lively Hollywood music track we two-step, foxtrot, tango tap dance and gambol down to Rio. © gene Williamson 2008