We are pleased to offer you the most
comprehensive vacation guide available.
I’m here for a day—so little time
to comprehend the hum and history—
pay the parking fee of ten dollars,
and set out on my adventure.
No one warned me hot-humid August
is not the best time. These streets,
once paved
with cobblestones used as ballast
in colonial sailing ships,
blister the feet, heat penetrating
even substantial shoes. The ships
arrived from England empty
or partly laden, off-loaded ballast
stones to make room for rice,
tobacco, and cotton.
Visit the historic Market
where farmers sold fresh vegetables,
now vendors and artists sell jewelry,
hats, T-shirts, crab boil, candles,
baskets, paintings, and prints.
The Market has outlasted tornadoes,
hurricanes, a major earthquake,
bombardment from Union warships.
My historian friend says losing
the Civil War was the worst
and best thing that ever
happened to the South.
Enjoy our sweet tea and
southern hospitality.
Not far from here, the slave trade
once thrived. The visitor’s guide
does not say if ghosts still wander
the streets, looking for their children
who were sold in this
family-friendly city.
I escape the heat in an ice cream shop
and remember reading about DNA research
that proves white people are black people
who left Africa and lost their color
in the refrigerator of Northern Europe.
Steamy summer weather calls for a visit
to Waterfront Park.
The Cooper River meets the Ashley
in Charleston Harbor, where fish leap
completely out of deep water,
a feat few men have accomplished.
Jesus did it. Gandhi, Lincoln.
The rest of us struggle to leave
the pond we’re born in, or never try.
“Shrimp and grits” is not
just for breakfast anymore.
First appeared in The Lake
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 