i believe.
there's a sign on the door.
closed until
further notice.
but he won't return.
his ship has sailed,
motored out
into the bay, beyond
the bridge,
the islands that reek
of crabs and salt,
fish of all sorts
on filament lines,
stacked in crowded nets.
i see his silhouette against
the peach sun,
settling upon the water.
his tilted hat,
the swirl of cigar smoke rising.
was he good man?
sometimes.
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