As the tiered diesel
engines slowly omit their shakey breath
to the elderly
harbors morning mist
the gulls hiss their
songs of fare ye wells
August has left with
all her ringing bells
cottages boarded up
with their new age
security units
exhausted from their
belly fulls
of sandy feet and
estival romance
back to the suburbs
or the cities
on winding roads
that dance through
salty rivers and
streams
accompanied by
painted mail boxes
and a brisk ocean
breeze
they leave crystal
clear wine glasses
perfectly spaced to
dry
while Coors Light
cans litter the bushes
near Georgia's
blueberry pies
the front porch of
the store seats
all the weathered
old men
who'll smile if they
know you
and if they don't
dear,
they'll pretend
the fishermen's eyes
will shortly fade to
grey
and won't come back
alive
until the next warm
april day
so as the tiered
diesel engines slowly omit their shakey breath
to the elderly
harbors morning mist
the gulls hiss their
songs of fare ye wells.
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