where they say Farah Fawcett lay nude,
points east to the Isle of Shoals.
Nor’easters come with their gray skies and white seas, and
Pipers stand shoulders, if they had them, hunched against the chill.
Beyond is the land of Melville, Joyce, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, and on and on.
their bright two-tones bobbing,
wait for yellow-slickered men
to empty them of their captives from below.
They say one can hear the scream of a lobster thrown into the boil, so
One chardonnay evening I tried and ever so slightly I heard the lament.
The reign of terror
over a reddening crustacean reminds me:
I often feel inadequate
after reading T.S. Eliot’s Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
Mesmerized by his use of intuition and metre I become listless and irresolute.
I find myself walking the beach with my pants rolled craving a peach.
Dreaming of Michelangelo under the magnetic glimmer
of the dancing aurora borealis above,
I find there is hope.