Photo: Google Map
I’d like us to remember an old bustling port The kind you smell before you see What is that, dead fish? I rode my bike there when I was a kid More now that I’m older Tomorrow’s recycling day Beyond that, I hardly plan ahead What is that, blood on my finger? Or tomato from dinner? “Maybe that’s why surgeons don’t eat lunch at work,” I say. “Any meal really,” you say And so it goes on a Friday night When I make tea for you and me Wonder, wonder The world I wonder The man’s a boy, says I The woman a girl, says you What fishy ports =L=