|
Finding a Port in a Storm
It might be the back-end of town near the wharves
and the fish-dock, away from the beach and the waves,
but better than being at sea, soaked with salted raw hands,
the bone-biting cold; better than freezing in a heaving bunk
with your oilskins on;
in her warm sweaty bed, her body so soft, him sliding
about like a gutted fish, with the bottle he nicked to deaden
his mind, give a kick-start and pay her off when they've done.
No danger of drowning, nothing to remember or forget; a job
better done in the dark. |
|
|
