A fisherman at the end of the bar
rums down his land sadness,
and if you do not know what
that affliction is you have not lived
sea from dawn to dawn sometimes.
Hia oars lean against the wall
at a steep angle. Each sip of the dark
and sticky Navy is Hail Mary. Each
feeble curse is a pinch of salt thrown
over his shoulder to ward off the devil.
Perhaps these reels and rolls in my imagination.
More likely, he sits there and ponder
about a pending paint job, cold storage
and land burials. Lost in the sea,
will not it be better instead?
The brine pollens of the ocean whitens
the rough floorboards. Outside
the fate of the signage sways. A fall
seems always one more gust of wind away.
The tongue burns in another gulp of oblivion.
Photo Nick Victor