60, take it or leave it
I guess I'll take it.
A fast drive into the slow dusk of the causeway
linking this near bay to the far ocean.
The eternal fishermen of January still dot these bridges
frigid slippery worms slithering their fingers
finger to hook to line to water.
And still the fish come.
Another sort of finger
bony with black ice taps the rear window.
I turn it taps I turns it taps.
Along the narrow road thru this flatland
so often flooded, so stubbornly reclaimed
a lone-lit diner sits, always open, always empty.
There I sit awhile
facing in time the estuary and the wind
with a beer and a bowl of clams,
a cigarette, and my son.
And I wait
with a snicker and a sneer
a wink and a whisper
for the full dark to come.