not what it is

there is a certain
sadness

walking down by the docks
at this hour,

a vague attempt to clear
your head. figure things out.

the sun a weak yellow
melt

giving it all it has on
a winter morning.

but the stench of the water,
the fish

afloat, having risen like
silver
petals

dead too soon, perhaps.
the green sloth
of foam,

the gulls bored with it all
floating
sideways.

there's uncertainty.
the boats resting, tied
to the docks,

rocking, colliding with the wood.
times were
simpler back then,

you say to yourself,
walking onward, past the shore

turning up the cold alley
thinking of what home should be,
not what it is.