The Old Fishing Village
The rain is a gauze.
I could have slept in,
but listen to gulls
bothering the cruise ships.
What more can rain
throw at us? Joe’s boat
slips out once a day
for weather-beaten tourists
who find us on old maps.
The yellow houses on the hill
are derelict. I was raised
thick-skinned but my jaw
aches trying to smile. These
limbs were like a lion’s.
I’ve worrying to do.
No nets to fix, crates to lift.
The kids have left. We thread
through the hall on Sunday,
share soup, sing songs,
come Monday delete
one more friend or cousin
from the address book,
its pages falling out. We die
slowly like poisoned fish.
David has one book (The Rare Bird Recovery Protocol, Cinnamon) and three pamphlets published & poems in Acumen, Ink Sweat & Tears, Interpreters House, Magma, Rialto, and Smiths Knoll. He is Writer in Residence at The Bethlem Gallery. You can find his website here.