six am: sea intervening fog.

Ropes slick round the cleats in their binds
and the dock sits, sunk like an old dog.

They say a good body is hard to find. 
It’s seven now. I’ve had braver days.

Last night, the sea tantrumed herself flat

now the shore creeps out from under waves

as if cringing away from a smack;
you promised to drown me once.

I outlived worse promises than that. 
But water is indifferent to our vows

here, a stubbie in the sand catches sun

and gulls line the piles in scattered, angry rows

eight am: the Smorgy’s lights go on