Saturday, August 02, 2003

The Hamptons 

Slip south across long sound
fore midnight,
wave tops lit with moon's
blue neon light.

Wait, I must stop

a moment, dirty uniform to shed.
Then bent back stroking a steady pace,
slow current children under my bow,
as light house beacons tear over the race.

Steadily working my wooden sweeps
into bay and inlet and exclusive creek.
Under the arching cairn of a low brick bridge
dripping oars echo rippling bells.

Hide under willows seeking
some posh party, barely peeping,
slow children play upon the bank while warm
wind wafts voices prattling, yet wait:

shall I not climb, flush, to stand ashore-
let lush lawn dry my wrinkled feet
and join these revelers, their feast to share?
Oh no, for they would only glare

at my free form.

Some may only stare, some giggle from the bar,
never stoop and speak to naked tars.

Slip north across long sound,
predawn flight,
wave tops blush with moon's
fading sight.

Wyatt H Knott
©2002, 2003 All Rights Reserved

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