The rain on the back of my neck reminds me to wear the yellow rubber coat.

I think of the ocean, spray in my face, salt sting in my eyes.

 

I do not know the Sea, not in the way of men who depend upon

its wealth and vagaries for life, hard, blistered lives.

 

The ocean is where I go, entering by sail or surf,

the flap of wind on canvas, the cold slap of surf on sand.

 

I do not know the cities, streets, in the way of those whose

lives are spent surviving them, hard, blistered lives,

 

where young men need not get up because there is nowhere to stand.

Young women do not sleep – hungry babies cry.

 

The old men remember. Memories ease the burn of cheap wine.

The women are old before they live, memories wine cannot douse.

 

The towns are where I have lived, the square entered on the boulevard,

the bandstand decked in bunting, the faces of Stepford all around.

 

It is late as I am going. Can time accommodate my need to know?

I pull on the hood of my slicker and tack into the wind.