Miles of steel
And concrete
Hang high and hazy,
Stretching
The breadth of the flat,
Gray bay.
Massive ships,
Tankers,
And tiny tugs
Dot the horizon,
Surreal in the mist;
And in the distance
They could be forgotten
Toys, plastic,
And insubstantial,
Or the foggy ghosts
Of a lifetime ago;
When I would swing
In the woven-rope
Hammock,
With grandpa,
Small and hard,
Like him,
Impermeable,
And stoic,
Watching vessels
Creep along the curve
Of a simpler earth;
The years
Of smooth and foggy
Beach glass,
And hours to inspect
A minute patch of
Sand and shells
For a specimen
Worth sandy pockets.
A time of storm-worn wood,
The rustle and sway
Of tall, dry grass,
And a hunger
For lungs full
Of the ocean's salty sighs

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