they sat in a booth
near the door
spoke of ships and docks and stevedores
bays and decks and rails
and how to secure things
as not to fail
and though they spoke
of everyday life
it sounded glamourous
not full of strife
eating sausage, eggs and drinking tea
one looked quite the salty dog to me
red shirt, black vest, gray beard and all
went on discussing tomorrow's chore
as I paid the check and heard no more
and returned to my life as I slid through the door
but my thoughts remained
with the one from Maine
and the salty ace
whose charming accent I never did place
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem