Marina Sunday Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

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.