Cocked crane legs of Gloucester rigging,
hard hats dangling on pegs amidships.
A pickup idles in the harbor lot
and walking with my wife’s hand
we notice the hiccuped shoulders in the cab,
daubing the driver’s eyes.
Sun-orange on the belly of a gull. The scabby ships
pulled in and dormant–a year of space
to save gasping cod stocks off the cape.
Enough to rust a trawler it would seem.
Whiffs exhale from the muffler.
The schooling cod blue, swelling.
What was it they said
on the radio? An act of salvation.