Kelso has a boat
smeared to the gunnels,
with cawk and greasy weeds.
At a prow of dawn
he hauls dripping lobster,
and their pots
up the scummy steps
of the silty stone harbor,
pushing a barrow
into the towns brick narrows.
Kelso barters claws and tails
to barkeeps, crab-mongers,
to fish wives and their
salty daughters.
At close of day
he returns
to the bight, the bitty harbor,
to eats mackerel
from a spray-seasoned skillet.
Then Kelso lays back
with his reeky brown dog
and smokes a care-free
funky blue fog.
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