Life passes by on the way to somewheres else now, but it no coom.
The fish no coom anymore. They'd coom and leap into the seine they would, without a care for themselves, and us without a care for them. All gone now.
We'd dig in the muck for the shells of St. James, and the excursionists would ooh and ahh over the beastly things. All gone now, and the all the brahmins don't venture here no more. We'd eat kale from the back acre and spend the money. But the money don't coom now.
She says I am a good man as I don' t strike her, and I don't drink my wages. But there are no wages and the fish don't coom and I'm not any sort of man at all if I don't drink nothing 'cause I have nothing.
The ocean took my digit in the bight of the rope in a gale once. It was nothing, really. Just a pinch.
After a while the pinches add up, don't they, though?
The clock ticks and I wait. The fish don't coom, but she will when her day is done.
(First offered in 2008)