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
bay city plaza
1 August 2018