You Bet Poem by Jerry Pike

Where the sand steeps up to the moss, boys,
there are feet pointing out, that are mine,
and those toes are exhibiting action,
as I tap them excited, in brine.
I’ve a stick for a crutch, leaning westward,
just a steady to stare out the bay,
I could wander some more for perspective,
but right here’s getting better each day.
There are too many joys on an ebb tide,
when those angel folk whittle at sky,
and they dance on the waves of hello there,
and deliver its breathy-most sigh.
I launch off with some thoughts down a slipway,
those old runners are grease for the minds,
yet I’m living, oh living with pirates,
but the onlookers only see lines.
I may be aged and crooked with a tie belt,
St. Endellion rising behind,
but they ask, Are you alright alone here?
I reply, I’m in heaven, each time.