Down with the Boats

Wind tearing my hair, whipping tearsfrom the corners of my eyes: the piermoving underfoot, sway and riseand fall from under, the boats lie still,gray-green water slapping the pilings,sloshed up the sides of the boats, remnantsof the great fleet, Terra Nova, Patand Chico, Second Effort, small tough boatsfitted out for open sea. What we built.It’s about to rain. Cars noseand nudge onto the narrow street,the parking lot emptying of day trippers—the highway takes them, and in a while the townis a small town again. The boats are risinglifted on tide; pong of mud and fish anddiesel, smells like the past. We were so poorthe voices say over and overand we came here and we were poor again,but always the tough menwrangling the nets the ropes those whalersand fishers and builders of boats, we camewith clothes on our backs, thought we would returnwith trunks full of money until yearsthe town became us, we buried our deadin the ocean, bones and buttons, we buriedour dead on the hill above town, but the town is gone,sold away, the fish are gone, fished out,the island was lost, the harbor claimed, a citybuilt a city lost, I’m down here with the boats,the rain now sputtering up in gusts, wind liftsthe water off the harbor sprayed upand the blue sheen of oilfloats, spread across the surface,thin like gold leaf, will not mix.