I sit here in my cups
watching fishermen gut their wares
along the decrepit pier.
I sigh with each careless toss and watch
pelicans vie for their share.
Blue and white sails mirror the gray
along the shore.
‘I'd like to paint that someday, ’
she used to say.
And I'm reminded of the way
the wharf smelled
the day my sun went down:
decaying fish pickled in brine,
and all around the moaning of a ship
far out on the horizon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem