I chanced to meet an old sailor,
just the day before next
he lives down the row, the little
yellow house. The one with the
pear tree out front.

He congratulated me, as usual
on being unemployable. A noble goal,
he allows, as there are precious
few noble employers.

The sea bashed us, in boats old before
I was young.
Cold and windy, hot and still. Humidity
always, though you'd not notice it
after a front pushed through.

Nets and lines, cast for days
follow the birds; they may
not always know for sure, but
they are always hungry enough to
find out.

He's younger now than last I saw
him. Stout as the little fireplug
that guards his place.
Less arthritis, easier back,
knees flex without as much
of the popping.

I wonder how the catch is? It's
been so long. I've been worried
about chasing the scales of
distance, time, force, entropy.
Ideas rather than the fish you
grasp, wind that tears, birds
and beer and cigarrettes snuck
under the moonlight.

Not dead dreams these, just
unacknowledged, there's birthdays
and holidays and school coming
up (it's always there, the turn
of the semesters for me, the new
school year for the little terror,
I hope her teachers forgive me my
sins and trespasses).

He'll not be there next I look.
Too many waves to catch. And
there's duck season, geese
coming in. After that, well,
there's a pig in the barn getting
nice and fat.

Then it all starts over.
As it didn't do tomorrow. I think
I'll watch a fishing show
and think about, dream over,
forget yesterday the
memories I have forever.