Breezes pick up beach sand, palm fronds, and food-wrappings, smashing them against the walls, poles and billboards. Drivers roll up windows, attacked by tumbling seaweed. Grills blow empty. Ashes sweep drives. Mouths go dry.
.
.
not even sweets
without a grain of salt
wharf café
without a grain of salt
wharf café
I park at the Fisherman's Wharf, sucking in the fresh stink of the harbor, dash by the Custom House, built in 1848, and go down Alvarado Street, historically full of watering holes. They shoot breeze here. Best street to connect on the gut level -- and John Steinbeck knew it. His ghost is still wherever they shoot breeze. At midnight, the fishing boats throttle into the sea. It’s time to go. Too drunk to drive, I grope with my feet back into my four walls to hole up, trying to write my guts out.
.
fishing village
stink of the diesel
in the wine glass
.
fishing village
stink of the diesel
in the wine glass
.
by Tad Wojnicki
Hsinchu City, Taiwan
first published in Simply Haiku, Fall 2004
Hsinchu City, Taiwan
first published in Simply Haiku, Fall 2004
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