The Meat of the Matter

On the Pier

So many glassless hands propose a toast: "To the sea!" Squinty-eyed twilight men continue their acquisition. I appreciate their hope In finding joy in the little ones. Under a piebald gray sky I should be working. But my toasting glass is thrust only toward a sea of stacks. I wonder how success would feel if it were measured in meals of mackerel? I indulge for a moment that I, in my acquisitions, Might be the silver and green flippity-flopper -- resisting the pail. One kind fisherman, on the half turn, sets his hook and reels in a fighter. He holds the contorting creature for an extra few moments over the wooden ledge. He is offering a final chance; though to the fish this is no sport. Water of life splatters back to the heaving bosom below. Elsewhere, more bait sails out Like a bottle rocket with smoke string. The fish spins and twirls on the dock, Sparking with life, a screaming Piccolo Pete.