Chris Craft’s stereo spews Clapton riffs
and I jack it up to hear how a Fender
sounds in a master’s hands. Wooden
dock posts sport pelicans who nod
their heads, nap, or perhaps pray for me
as I sing If you wanna get down,
down on the ground, Cocaine...
After a day spent reeling in redfish and snook
I consider dropping by Finn’s Grill & Icehouse
where beer is served so cold ice forms
on the sides of tall thick mugs and seafood
is brought to the table by long-legged sirens
covered in colorful tattoos and pithy
fishing-town attitudes.
I watch another Technicolor sunset
paint the Gulf of Mexico bright pink and purple
and catch glimpses of bay dolphins leaping.
A wise old pelican stares at me as if to ask
Why the hell don’t you turn loose of city life
and grab this spot on the Texas coast?
I wonder why myself.
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