Cat Island

A little fish fry on a beach on Saint John,

the one that faces away from sunrise.

Owner walks from the porch onto sand,

tan promenade, with a box of bottles.

Unknown happy hour, 5 am, all that’s

left of the courage is just stale aroma,

a sharp blend of tequila, rum and red stripe.

Slowly walks to the rocks under the cliffside.

Cracks and crags, squeeze and stumble

to the tidal pool adopted as his dumpsite.

Pours in the glass and some shatters midair,

first splashed in an unenjoyed golden stream.

Rising waves stir and dilute this concoction.

Jagged jade shards exit with precise and

imperfect waves, through a gap he can’t fit through.

Called forth to further reaches and depths,

sanded and softened slowly,

broken and beaten smooth, tumbled

in and across ten thousand tides.

Each night before opening, he walks alone

along the beach. Finds the pieces of these

broken things. And every night finding some,

blue, green, brown, red, black and white,

again seeing the sun, just as it was.