Sweet sea water dreams,
waves licking,
lapping
the cracked-red paint.
That early summer afternoon,
anchored
at Heriot Bay:
She had one frock,
a rose-hued dress
she saved for store visits
and funerals.
Not church.
Never church.
She was done with that.
.
He was tired of seafood;
craved steak.
She calmed him;
“fish is fine,
but we’ll see.”
He hunted up
his old prairie dog pistol;
He was not above
shooting some lazy old cow
if it wandered into his sights.
“Damn things rusted, Marion,” he moaned.
It had fallen
into a foot of bilge
over by Ripple Rock
weeks earlier.
That storm had almost
swamped them;
rusted gun,
soggy odds and ends and all;
“We’ve got so little,” he belly-ached.
“A small price,”
she said.
“We’re alive.”
She returned at dusk.
They ate a bucket
of free oysters,
cuddled in the cramped cot;
Dreamed me up;
crazy seagulls
swooping.