Mr. Blue
First fog of morning
Mr. Blue dons dirty gortex
to blend in the day's first haze,
first trip to the beach,
limit eighteen bivalves.
An hour to dig,
an hour to clean and freeze,
an hour to rest--
and change from blue to red coat,
gray Dockers,
black rubber knee-highs.
Another dig,
another limit
to clean and can when sun
and tide are high.
Still warm, evening,
Mr. Blue dons yellow hat and slicker
third of five trips,
the last change black to fool the night.
And who is fooled?
Not game warden,
fellow diggers,
neighbors and drinking buddies.
Mr. Blue staggers
over rock and stone,
as arthritic limbs protest too many trips
over beach logs and rubble?
Seventy-seven years of fog
and evening chill as the harvest
grows smaller yearly,
shrunken limbs and granite joints,
the price Mr. Blue pays
to continue the life he had
when he first led Mrs. Blue across the sand.
As the fog rolls in with night's chill,
Mr. Blue dreams of hidden dunes,
sandy rendezvous
and tomorrow's harvest
never to be eaten,
a clouded mirror
to the best part of his life.
Feb guest is TE Ballard and Gar does garbage at:
http://gardawg.homestead.com/gardawg.html,
Poets for Peace. ˇPoemas sí, balas no!
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