I remember swimming in Aquatic Park
coming out of the water still numb, pausing
on the way to the shower

there was a small gathering at the shoreline
a news camera ready
to record something momentous.

A few feet off-shore, a man of the street
by the looks of him, stood in a rowboat
his tweed coat sagging on his uneven shoulders. 
He was supposed to be Columbus
coming ashore, for the six o’clock news. 

Some North Beach Italians with media connections
presumably descended from immigrants
were about to commemorate the great syphilitic navigator
by reenacting Columbus’ discovery of America. 

He seemed a little shaky
but stood ready to do his best. 
They were talking him through it,
they’d even given him a helmet with a plume.

“Just act natural,” the director said.  “Ok,
now step out onto the sand.”
He bent forward, a hand shaking toward the gunwale.
The boat rocked, an oarlock rattled, he faltered
and fell into the water.  His helmet,
trailing its sad feather, spun beside him. 

He looked up apologetically. In his red face
you could see all the things that had gone wrong in his life. 
Regaining his feet he sloshed ashore, 
his pants soaked, his sport jacket wet. A stage-hand
handed him back his helmet.

Despite the mishap
the reporter still held the microphone up to him. 
“Do you know where you are?”  he asked.
The man couldn’t answer
it seemed a million things
were streaming through his mind. 

“You’ve reached the New World,” 
the interviewer offered. Some of the crew 
were turning aside trying not to laugh.
It was a mild October day, no one on the beach
except me, shivering in my trunks and swimmer’s cap. 

Despite the cold, something about this American
vaudevillian skit, made me feel obligated
to witness it to the end.  Alcatraz floated dreamily
in the distance, softened by a white haze. 

There were no Indians about
and we could all see
that Columbus was homeless.