Slimy bird shit and hardened burger grease,
The mix of minerality and fish guts.
Symphonic combinations crescendo in excitement,
Made more pleasant as the trip begins,
Vending-machine doughnuts and salt water.
Lots of white people managing family situations and double-checking bank balances.
Old-crusted-men, local day labor, playing Spades in orange-backed fiberglass seats.
Only modestly contemptuous of the overwhelming crowd of khaki as they dawn.
The ride is usually smooth and first light breaks up the mist
The excitement grows.
The grinding and growling of this big old girl as she’s shoved from her slumber.
The open air will dull the symphony and settle into something a bit more Big Band.
The kreening of water birds diving for Pringles and Pop-Tarts are met by the wet Mystical air and they glide the way.
The windbreakers come out and the sunglasses are found and the sleep slips away.
Some teenagers are causing Penny Loafer trouble,
The Long Island women are talking loudly.
No one can wait to buy Black Dog Tee-shirts.
Perhaps they should sell them in Falmouth and save us all the noise.
Something inaudible is announced.
De-De-De-dada-De-De-De rings in the littlest ears as they imagine brass
They giggle.
Eventually after the horn sounds Brash Bass
More inaudibility is announced the tune switches again.
Jazz, fast and faultless, no three-piece affair.
The smaller Diesels in the bay rumble,
The distant creak of waiting porch swings beckon.
The piers and pylons welcome and the slow arrival is met.
Fast hands and excitement.
The gangway is given with rattling chains and metal on metal scrapes.
The children are herded, wrangled by familiar whistles and far away “Dannnys.”
The moment is here and the bustle begins.
The hawkers and the cabbies are ready for something fresh and the throng breaks Into slow stride over everywhere splintered planks.
More smoke but this time cigarette and hot-dog.
Wet stone smell, slippery with seaweed and sediment and sharp crustaceans.
Fishing poles and luggage and languages are everywhere.
Finding the house will represent some challenge,
Then there will be the choosing of rooms,
The going to the grocery store for something healthy.
It will all be worth it for the first sunset.
Down the long addled path to the stone sanctuary,
Of red with rock piles and wrinkled-asses and rough water,
Where the band is decidedly more Funk.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011
©DANIEL MORTON 2011
