Kelso At Anchor

Kelso has a boat smeared to the gunnels, with cawk and greasy weeds. Kelso is old enough to be free of care, his dog don't care neither. At the prow of dawn he hauls dripping lobsters in their pots up the scummy steps of the silty stone harbor, pushing a barrow into the dickering markets cobbled narrows. Kelso barters claws and tails to barkeeps, crab-mongers, to fish wives and their saucy daughters. Gummy smiles he shares with the crones; their thin cranky bones thrill to his beard-wagging ways. At close of day he seesaws, half-cut and tottering to the bight, the bitty harbor, to eat a kippered mackerel from a spray-seasoned skillet. Tomorrow he will do the same if the lobsters appear in his pulled-up smeary pots, if not he will sup upon a dark brew and make a meatless stew of beetroot and hot fried pickles. Kelso lays back with his reeky brown dog (as he always does), to smoke a care-free plug into a fumy fog. He listens to the dimming sky piddle over the wallowing town, hears the night rolling in over the seas lap and swell tucked up and swaddled is he in his oily cot, and swaying low; he most pleased to be, yours consistently - just old Kelso.