The Fishermen Poem by nathan martin

black may turn to gray but gray
may not turn to yellow,

night may turn to day, but
still these clouds hang around.

saltine driftwood and enameled seashells
fracture against the course palm.

illiterate sons, unreverenced
staggering pulpit's
half diligent, half hungover.

early in the morning they return to
the docks the prodigal sons of galilee.

to curse at their sober seagull halos,
maybe find a wooden plank to lay down
some foggy poems and dreams.

they are fishermen and they have
never been so holy.

beautiful as halogen lamps in the
corners of dark rooms.

wearing their bright yellow rain coats,
they bristle gather a nets worth of fables.