Speaking of Frisbee (AZ)

“What a lovely time we had in Frisbee!”
This was a notable addition
--the mistake of a guy older than me--
to our family’s small-joke pantheon.
We were riding up a hill in Kartchner Caverns,
a famous state park, celebrated site,
in an electric cart, twelve tourists packed tight,

when, unprompted, he remarked to his wife
how much he’d liked “Frisbee”: how good the shops,
how tasty the lunch. By this stage in life,
she was used to correcting him. He stopped
talking right away. People laughed, then stopped.
We drove over for a look: “Frisbee” was
a good place, a pleasant detour for us.

We saw shop after shop, stocked with antiques
or just good old stuff. The prices seemed fair.
I bought some used sunglasses for five bucks,
which, back in my own habitat, I still wear.
Bisbee, an old mining town --have you been there?--
surrounded by copper-colored earth, scooped
from the landscape like soup in a spoon.

A plan took shape. There were signs everywhere:
this charmer “For Rent,” that one “For Sale, or Lease.”
We especially liked the bright, singing air.
Clotheslines abounded; the laundry must be sweet.
Most buildings were brick, high above the streets,
built on wood pillars or up steep inclines.
You know these old towns, staked above the mines.

Scribbling numbers as we rushed to the car,
we ducked into one last, cavernous shop.
They sold kids’ stuff: toys, gum, candy bars.
But there, alas, the penny fantasy dropped.
We heard news that brought us to a screeching stop.
A gold-mining co. had just renewed old rights.
Cyanide in paradise, new misery, old fights.

“Guess we’ll have to keep looking,” sighed my wife,
“for our dry-air getaway. Oh, dear! ‘Bisbee!’ ”
Back on Arizona highways, making up time,
heading for a place with a hill we could climb,
I remembered a girl from forty years ago.
“Speaking of Bisbee, remember So-and-So?
I heard she lives there. Poor her! Poor Frisbee!”