Dockman

Some men row boats, the fish that live beneath the still, reflective water, broken by the slicing paddles, follow curiously. Some men reach the rocky shore after ten minutes. Others take hours, maybe even days. The fish don’t follow those quite so curiously. One man sits on the dock, wide brim hat casting shadows on the planks worn smooth by consistent footfall, casting shadows on his pallid face. He smokes a long cigar, taking copper pennies from the men who row boats. Some, reaching the shore in ten minutes Some, taking hours, or maybe even days.