Late Evening On Ferguson Pier
It's a place I know,
my feet familiar
with each timber plank
that deck the way,
the smooth ones
and the ones buckled
and raised ready
to trip an old man's foot.
I know the name
of every boat moored
along its length,
the repertoire of sounds
played by the tides
and restless swells,
its intimate whispers.
It could be any place
but for me
it's here in the solemn quiet
of a late evening
on the end of the pier,
when the world
returns to an order,
gathers in the strewn pieces
of itself like scattered toys
on a playroom floor
and puts them back
into a labeled drawer.
The time when hurry settles
and strung nerves
are loosened
and soothed by sleep.
For a moment
the world fits neatly here,
snug in this small pocket
of calm on the end
of Ferguson Pier.
In the distance, city lights
float on a dreaming bay
as the tide silently ticks
the evening and me
away.
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