I sit here in my cups wondering
where it all went and why.
Fishermen cleaning their wares along
the decrepit pier seem to sigh with each
careless toss, unwanted refuse, fit only
for seagulls and pelicans, viciously
vying for their day’s sustenance.
Blue and white sails, reflecting the morose
sea, up and down the shore, remind me of the way
the wharf smelt the day my sun went down:
decaying fish pickled in brine and all around
the moaning of a ship far out on the horizon.