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.