October Poem 55: I Write Of…

The pier floating out

In the water away from

The shade of trees or

Even weeds. The pier with its

Planks worn raw from the rocks and

 

Sand of years. And feet

Tracking debris down its length.

And the day’s sun rising

To bake and blister long and

Red in another hot soak

 

Bearing the weight of

The men carrying the poles

And tackle and vests

And buckets and coolers to

Boats that bump its wooden sides.

 

Poetry, the first

Plank of the pier, raw and red

That never seems to

Fully heal because I feel

So very derivative.