ferry

ferry

spit

hawk

sputum

on the bay

to sink to crabs

or be gobbled by

diving birds with angry beaks

a gangplank

to durable fabric

chairs on swivels where

the business pages rustle

and men stare at laptops

and the bartender juggles limes

a baby cries, a cell phone rings

behind me, faintly cutting through

thumb pianos and nose flutes: africa

tasted with whiskey tamed by melting ice

the engines slow and throb

in the channel, the yellow walls

of prison catch the evening light below

the mountain that sleeps, the woman on her back

the bay, the foam, the wind surfers shoot and fall

the lawyers on the boat dressed for the tour de france,

all logo spangled spandex and those special shoes that

click on the sidewalk, queued for the race out of the parking lot

and we still haven't passed the pickleweed and salt grass

the place,

the docking station,

the steel geometry developed

for colonies on Mars, the images that

stick before i walk down the gangway

and wait for traffic, and wait for radio reports

 of safety, disaster or stock prices

and scratch another day

off a calendar that

has no end

no point

except

a possibility

a song, a salad

with a million ingredients:

vegetables and herbs and words

i can taste that, light and spice

and texture on the tongue

of mind and voice

and knowledge

sitting quietly

that knows:

oh, so that's

what real

feels like,

cool.