An ocean view

Scattered stones,
Sticks strewn
A metronomed wave
The white ball of a sun
The pervasive fog
They all stand still
As does a vessel in the distance
Anchored to the shallow ocean floor.

When I was a child my father told me much
About that boat named “St. Christopher”
He told me of its history, and how,
Steeped in tradition, it collected many
Lobster pots over many generations
Connecting one family to the sea
And to a livelihood.

It was my seamark in olden days
When I scattered stones
And strewn sticks
when my cares were few in the morning fog,
It made me proud to be from Maine
Though I’m not sure why

Now it rocks and I can barely see
Its pale-blue cabin dancing
In and out of sight
This boat, “The St. Christopher”
Now doesn’t mean so much to me
It’s nostalgic white-washed hull is
Faded by the salt

But many a tourist gaze at it,
Are mesmerized by it,
Worship it through their enhanced optics,
They seem to cherish it as if it were their very grandchild
I guess It paints a pretty picture in their head
That they can carry back to Kansas
or Illinois or New Mexico

To me its just one of many, lonely sea vessels
And its pale-blue
Dances
In and out of sight

The asphalt glows golden

I see a dim, diffused light from a swinging lantern
I hear the hoof clatter of the horse
whose back bears a rain-soaked cowboy
protected somewhat with a leather duster
yet still dripping through the dance of the night

I stand below the awning of Goldstein’s drug store
my core of aches holds tightly the little brown bag of PRNs
The city cabs pass by; streaking white, red, and yellow
horns blare their Doppler effects while happy couples
ambulate through and around the sidewalk puddles

The wet shiny asphalt glows golden under the lamppost
newspaper shards lay scattered like the day’s minutes
I think of my warm and cozy flat I abandoned for the rain
the hoof clatter grows more pronounced
yet I don’t want to look at the glowing candle

I close my eyes and force my mind into music;
I shut the door to the space around me
I live out the notes of Faure’s Pavane, Opus 50
then my brief sabbatical is over, fear rips through my being
as the wet cowboy dismounts his mottled mare,
hands me my ticket, and exits among the taxis