Curtis Hayes

LONG BEACH, 1984

In the daylight
there were tourists
where the Queen Mary rose gargantuan
out of the harbor.
After hours
the core of the great Cunard Liner
was buttoned up and bolted shut,
but the outer decks remained open until midnight.
Parking was free and unpatrolled.
We’d score some beer or sparkling wine,
drink it in our cars
with our teenage music
and our teenage girls,
then cross the gangway.
The ship was built as a playground
for the wealthy and elite
and launched
in the middle of the Great Depression.
We were in Levi’s and tee shirts,
and just hoped that our cars
would make it home
at the end of the night.
Across the bay
the city glowed,
burning a shimmer on the still water.
We ran across the teak decking
laughing.
There were nooks
where a couple could press in
against cool steel bulkheads.
Sometimes we would peek inside
through the portholes
into the opulent
sealed-off staterooms and parlors,
imagining smoke and tuxedoes
satin and pearls,
we, in our Levi’s and tee shirts
too young
too ecstatic
to be thinking
about whether the luxury
just on the other side of the glass
would ever be open
to us.

Curtis Hayes has worked in sawmills, greasy spoons, and as a grip, gaffer, and set builder in film production. A native of Southern California, he likes eating chili cross-legged on a beach towel. His poetry has been featured in numerous small press journals and anthologies.