docked, tied neatly, wrapped
for winter
like easter
baskets.
the clink of anchors
sunken deep.
and the old captains and their
wives,
or mistresses
sit in the sun, or shade
and talk
of the sea. long ago voyages,
escapades.
prim and proper
in their blue striped
shirts.
their scarves, their tilted
hats,
they sit and drink, they pick
at salads,
at crabs.
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