Gull strike

Gull strike

The boat kisses the lip of the damp dock;

Tide-washed tongues of thick rope bind them;

The fish-and-salt smell makes the wind’s mouth water;

Gulls fly white circles, pecking and screeching;

Here and there they hang in the wind solving

The riddle of flying while fiercely still;

One begins his strike through the air’s hollows;

He seems an aimless missile from the moon;

But his slow-motion whiteness has eyes-on;

A man dandles a burger in his hands;

The gull turns his head like a tank's turret;

He leaves shreds of bap and tomato sauce;

Shock wake and swoop see the man jaw-fallen;

Bereft, befuddled, he bawls out his bans;
Screeching gulls and tinkling masts drown him out.