If I had no sense of direction
And no prior knowledge of where I was
I might think this was a fog was coming in off the harbor
In a place like New Jersey or Portland, Oregon.
And just beyond that building
Maybe another block down was an old shipyard,
Filled with skiffs, and wharfs, and a beaten down barge
Waiting to be used again.
The traffic might be drowning the cries of the gulls
Or they could still be asleep.
And there is a beaten down shop
Serving stale coffee
To weathered men in yellow slickers
And black stocking caps
Who remind me of The Old Man And The Sea.
Each morning I could put on my water proof shoes
And head down to the shore.
I’d collect broken glass, torn netting,
And pieces of wood
That were more like bone now
After being polished by the waves and sand.
The salt in the air would pickle my skin
And I wouldn’t know that the town I was in
Was old Omaha
So far away from the Ocean
And surrounded by land.
I would think this fog was coming in off the harbor
In a place like San Fransisco or somewhere in New England,
And I’d be a happier man.
