Immobile -

It sounds like chainsaws by the docks,
Immobile, sultry: rhythm’s voice.
The cats in garbage cans, the men,
Consume the sounds like breakfast knocks.

I miss the lapping seaside waves,
Disturbed as thrumming fingers’ clicks,
As pursing lips sound whistle song,
Or sea birds’ calls in traffic horns.

I only have my neighbors’ gaze
The vision of their GMC’s,
Their kids upon their Razor boards,
Cars Friday nights in “distance” cruise.

I miss the smell of foggy salt,
Of boiling crabs and sour dough.
I miss the bump and bustle’s force,
I miss the cable’s whir and grind.

But front yard cat stalks flower beds,
And mourning doves coo suns awake.
And though the surfers catch no waves,
These morning words might catch your smiles!