Tarpon Springs


Encased in alabaster
The mist curling, finger painting the air.
Tendrils teased by the breath of dawn.
The sea a sheet of crinkled foil
Its edges slick with diesel,
Aswirl around the pilings ‘neath my dangling feet.

Moorings creak, each groan of braided hemp
like a hoarse whisper between the tethered sterns.
As if Tony’s Tug were courting the Linda Lou
Lights are on in Captain’s Kitchen
Likely thawing out the catch of the day.
As a fierce orange crescent eases from the sea,
It's time I moved on.