Old bald crabber; your pots plugged
with thistle and grass, stacked ten
high behind seaward listing shed,
will miss back-deck, hold and season
while you rig houses for birds, splice wire
for TVs and toasters. Your dry-rot
thinned spirit crumbles slow, a sorry
beach and reef away from fifty-fathomed
dungeness grounds, wind-curled, chopped;
jostling jellyfish and slob cursing blockmen.
Claw-cracked clams, dead or dying
in cull-crate lashed to rail, hold more
meat than your creaking dreams
and dry-docked days.
c Dan Tompsett