The edge of the dock was where his world began.
Not the town. The souvenir shops.
The bar with the netting, anchors, harpoons, for décor.
But the waves lapping against the pilings,
the bay, the ocean, bobbing foam
like thousands of white faces,
the sun’s unerring points of light.
The longliner was his to head out into the vastness,
not to conquer, but to mortise,
as long as the seas would have him.
He’d stand there before his workday began,
not thinking, just looking,
wind blowing his hair and smile around.
Those waters took him like so many others,
a sudden storm, a boat trying to make a run for it.
But there’s no escape from what is all around you.
And if it’s also within you, then there’s no running.
John Grey is an Australian poet, and US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review, and Floyd County Moonshine. The latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work is upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Open Ceilings.