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.
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