“One Moment on the Coast” by Chris Sanita
They sprayed water on the hull and gun whales blood and guts dropped
down into the open bilge.
On a long plank of moss covered boards the pongas emptied of fish and men, smoking, wrinkled, deep in thought. The wharf
stands between million dollar houses and grotesquely poor families; inlanders looking for relief vs. the entitled seemingly successful. The boat
stands open to the gape of the Pacific, resting like a time machine above the hassle and hum of traffic, bars, cafes. For the little children clinging to waists, fathers boasting of night time ramblings and sports, the boat rests, abused, but ready for them. Small dark women slice silver fish with pink, red, green and brown shawls tied below their pointed chins. Children look up, wide eyed like the fish, supple, waiting.
Off near shore white waves crash into tall pier poles they vibrate, they grow mussels, barnacles and deadman’s fingers for gulls’ and curlews’ lunch.
A simple ’62 Chevrolet rumbles past as the driver's burnt arm rest on the door
I sip my coffee and inhale the life of day-