by Philip Pompetti
A small flag beats uselessly against the
wind. Boards move like slippery fish beneath
his wet and sodden feet. He is alone
in this gray, bleak dockside path to nowhere.
Cold, stiff hands now stuffed in colder pockets.
Perhaps he is reminded of a time
when the path taken was not quite as
important as the act of getting there.
Perhaps he is reminded of a
summer job on a summer ship, fishing
for the bounty of the sea and the
answers to the questions of the heart.
Or better yet, maybe it is a walk
along the dock to remind him of home.
No, even better still, it is a walk
to forget about the familiar
troubles of home. Forget or remember,
in this moment, it is the boards beneath
his feet, the salty wind in his face, the
solitude of a walk at dawn that will
sustain. Sustain like the final note to
a ballad once heard. There is no place like a
dock at seaside, no place where you can walk
among the different worlds of life.
There is a freeing feeling to be felt,
seeing the great flyers of the sky,
the walkers of the land, and the swimmers
of the sea all within an arms reach.
And yet their freedom is pure compared to
the fetters we put ourselves in.
Cold, stiff hands now stuffed in colder pockets.
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