Hiding from the smell of reeking fish lying one, one,
in a market stall.
the fishing boots laid to rest in the sun.
the hustle and bustle of tourists
looking for that tomato that will remind them of their childhood
that never was,
On a kibbutz or an Indian reservation
Weekends at the city’s shore.
playing with sand as it was clay
crafting a Golem that will protect them from the shining light
of growing up.
sand pales blue and wet
riding in the back of cars
glorious Sunday afternoons
in a gridlock.
the kids ask for a pee stop
they go in front a great beech,
near the beach,
where a fishing smack
fashioned for two,
The sailors went to the pub
drowning in ale and sorrow (they need a pee stop as well),
sorrow for playing the part
of drunken sailors,
in some imaginary escapist world
of a writer in a shared flat,
hiding behind cheap dark glasses.
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