Like the fisherman,
I ignore the warning
and hop the rail.
The rickety old dock
extends part way,
shifts, groans, and
rather suddenly ends.

The fisherman nods,
we exchange a pleasantry.
I give him space,
choose a rail and lean.
Windburned, and squinting
he lazily tosses, retrieves,
tosses, retrieves.

At our backs,
the road noise rises
in dirty waves
while the west wind blows
sea sounds in my shell ears.
The daytime moon hangs
just above the powerline.

Clouds wear
blue belly foam and
the water is brown beer.
Blackbird peeks from a gray tree.
Hundreds more stand bone dead,
their root systems drowned.

This is perfect.
I want to stay here.
I rub my papery hands for heat
and button the topmost.
I think about the
black haired poet, and
despite her obvious illness,
perhaps I want her.

04/25/2007

Author's Note: no one i think is in my tree...

Posted on 04/25/2007
Copyright © 2026 David Hill