I sure could go for a peach right now

Let’s return, like an inadequate Monet, to the waterfront. After days of rainy remnants of Bonnie and Charlie (really, it should have been Clyde), New England wakes, to what our previous olympic record holder of dimwittedness called, normalcy, unlike our unlucky brethren in those parts of Florida torn to pieces by that Category Four (our prayers are with them and theirs).

Before the Christening

Rain has made the waterfront a new
creation in its saturated image.
Sunshine sneaks a weathered look between
the disappearing clouds and calls it good.
Boats in the harbor speak their minds in testament
truths that Adam painted on their sterns:
Summer Breeze; Blew By You; Overdraft.
It’s August, such a royal month for late
vacationers who disregard the waning
days of empire drunk with cricket song,
hung over, looking decadently famous.
By the dockside more than ninety feet
of fiberglass obscenity is
waking to the derelict—Breaking Wind.

I can’t help but feel these days that more than summer is declining. There’s a wicked wind blowing out there. It calls itself anything but what it is: raw and blasphemous power.