The Jetty

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.

Whir-click-snack-snack.

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.

Whir-click-snack-snack.

Toss to the gulls go swoop//caw//swirl.

You think we are friends?

Pause.

Kratch-kratch-kratch.

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.

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