The Charter Boats
The boats string along the seam
of green and blue waters,
white mites on a fish vein,
trailing thin proboscides
that must be bitten to succeed.
The fish forage with the tides,
but sports angle by charter clock,
spending a deck hand’s weekly wages
for often empty hours,
staring wistfully at shore bathers
who glance back at them as scenery.
And beneath the boats, detected
stripers and blues cruise with
closed jaws past inopportune offerings,
biding for their unfathomed time
In a season gardens are overrun with weeds.
In a decade, gravestones are mossy.
In a generation tarmacs are homes to trees.
In two generations our names are not known.
In a man’s lifetime his home is debris.
In a century a breakwater rejoins the sea.
Our posturing seems quite temporary.
Peace comes dropping slow
Like the drips after a rainstorm.
Not in the event, but in its departure.
Not in the emotion, but in its afterglow.
Peace is the pensive echo of tumult,
And self-awareness that it must pass.
Peace comes dropping slow.