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Sitting at the pier,
the chattering people are all about,
some are chattering in silence.
A couple,
having seen many winters are renewing their vows,
quarreling in the customary fashion.
Hearing the occasional whine of a rod
as a devotee offers his nightly sacrifice to the saltwater God.
Wearing, shirts and hats of every manner,
that seem to be as an essential part of any purist tackle,
as line and hook.
There is a smell,
a pungent confirmation that there once was life here.
Three hot days ago I would wager.
All manner of lawn chairs dot the horizon,
some with tags still attached,
some most recently resurrected.
The rule appears to be that as long as not more than 50% of your person
slips through the seat it’s still good for another season.
None daring to offend or risk losing any of the luck of the timed tested
accessories weather still practical or not.
Waves greet each one present with the same indifference.
Reflecting back light and sound,
as if not wanting our intrusion to penetrate its steely surface.
Singular crowds and groups of solitary figures,
reminisce of a more fertile time.
The pier remains a testament to diversity.
Jamar |
