Posted by: Jim | March 18, 2005


On the Pier

So many glassless hands propose a toast: “To the sea!”
Squinty-eyed twilight men continue their acquisition.

I appreciate their hope
In finding joy in the little ones.

Under a piebald gray sky I should be working.
But my toasting glass is thrust only toward a sea of stacks.

I wonder how success would feel if it were measured in meals of mackerel?

I indulge for a moment that I, in my acquisitions,
Might be the silver and green flippity-flopper — resisting the pail.

One kind fisherman, on the half turn, sets his hook and reels in a fighter.
He holds the contorting creature for an extra few moments over the wooden ledge.
He is offering a final chance; though to the fish this is no sport.
Water of life splatters back to the heaving bosom below.

Elsewhere, more bait sails out
Like a bottle rocket with smoke string.
The fish spins and twirls on the dock,
Sparking with life, a screaming Piccolo Pete.


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