Draft

Walking the line

I felt a stalwart black eye
of the hurricane blindside
me at midmorning. Tore
down the street 110 miles per

only to find my stop at
the end of the whine in
Gloucester where I dropped
off Olson’s now-fenced entry

to the Harbor.  A seagull
floated me down but
I rose like seltzer bubbles
all the way to the end,

where piers from three
centuries ago aggro’ed
me into submission. I
beat the oxygen

to the surface but flailed
in the face of the fish
company taken over the wharf
puked up my brunch

and decided to drive
up the Cape but lost my
way on Bearskin Neck where
all the protopoets go for ice

cream or to gig their hard
drives into submission.
Their poet hats are so quaint.
I’d like to bust them in the nose.