Sunday At the Marina

Sunday at the Marina Water in the marina, clear as diesel fish swimming close to surface in peace of seagulls, which know they stink of human waste. This is not the fish that will feed the five thousand. A child strews bread crumbs into the water, ignored by the fishes. Seagulls’ shrieks and fall from the sky. A man drops a glass of gin & tonic, on the deck of yacht, claws at his chest. Ambulance and a nervous doctor tells him not to smoke cigars too late. Young widow, I hope she sells the bloody yacht.