Fog Horn

A sleeping fishing
village
and seascapes
of tiny boats
sand dunes
high tides
and low tides
like the ebbing
of my anxious
waiting for your call

the fog horn sleeps
too until
the evening when
hungry men
with worn hands
and shoulders
that worked the
deep blue
for food
not yet taken
by the whales
return to the docks
counting the pence
and dollars earned
this day

The welcoming horn
and sights of land
and the people who
will eat the fresh remains
in saucy languishing
of the life of those who are indifferent
to the horn’s signal of safety
for weary sailors
making their
way home through
dark
cold
and wet
ocean nights

You are gone
and the fog horn
reminds me of that
and yet we can
both listen for it
tonight
in our dreams

Cape Cod, MA

1999