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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!
Hepcat61
Written by Hepcat61 (geoff cat)
Published
Author's Note
28 of 30 - you know you never really liked being AT Fisherman's Wharf but then you've been harassed by the same joyful sound of the same children on their same Razor Scooters for a month and a half...
28 of 30 - you know you never really liked being AT Fisherman's Wharf but then you've been harassed by the same joyful sound of the same children on their same Razor Scooters for a month and a half and the idea of boiling crab stink and public urination suddenly seem like a great idea... Yea, that!
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