by Wendy Mnookin
At the end of the jetty.
Where the boats come in. Where the boats go out. At the pile of rocks
that swallows the sun at the end of the day.
At the turn of the trail. At the last dune.
In front of the hot-dog stand. At the door to the pub. By the shanty,
the shipbuilder's yard, the discarded yellow boots, the smashed
You thought I'd give in to despair.
But today is today, everywhere I look. And I look everywhere.