I watch the night, the last concrete piling aging like a book shelf, telling fisherman’s tales

the fog settling in my bones, I love tis hour, the hush hour, before the world wakes,

though it is damn cold and a warm coffee from the last canteen standing, the

moonbeam its lettering tattered fading from sight, rouses my mind,

the ships rock in their slumber dreaming of the dock, piles of metal rods and

fir trees wait to journey to foreign lands.