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i)
The tide waits in the distance, circling
small crabs in the popping mud.
I sit steadily, scratching
driftwood music on the sweet surface,
sweating like an old woman's dog,
interrupted by persistent tugs
the cord around my neck,
grinding
sand from glass from volcano from rock
wanting me out, the etcher,
lines scratched into mud
washed with salt twice daily.
as per instruction.
ii)
I scratch my bottom,
a plate of cockles,
breath rising from lungs,
arthritic twisting metal, warming to it,
the day's work and rest,
set by ephemerals,
pitch and yaw, rolling breaks,
the wash of the wind and seagulls
in middle distance, flapping
sails and cords waving at me,
old Duke Grumble Guts,
gurgling and coughing.
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