Two old men sitting on a bench with their froggy faces pressed to the glass of the busy harbor.
Everyone has their angle, their hustle, these days, they croak.
They open their mouths to snap-snap-snap at flies and passers by.
Their wrinkly spotted hands scatter crumbs
and the pigeons//gulls//swoop.
And my daughter said I’d grown old and alone. What does she know.
I’ve got friends. My life is full. I’m happy.
Toss to the gulls go swoop//caw//swirl.
You think we are friends?
Shut-up. I never liked you much anyway.
And then one gets up to leave.
He gimps down the jetty as waves crash and break over him.
It’s a baptism.