The jetty is like an airport
the fishermen with their poles swarthy
keen on departure
lounging in their tinnies full of tinnies

Bats overhead at dusk
drop passports of crap
splatting the water
prawns rise to the top eating it

their faces like my grandmother's
the night we poured the river
on the house fire
books crackling like peeling prawns

the cats scraping at the shells
like poets like starlings
my wife fills a glass with whisky
and passes me the bottle

its black label like a visa