The Seafarers, by Richard Georges

These old men are nothing but wistful,
eyes of nostalgia for the old days of the empire.
Reddened faces behind silver whiskers wrinkle
as they slur stories of seafaring between coughs.
The smell of liquor and phlegm hangs above the table
and the dying cheap cigars are balanced
on garish white ceramic ashtrays as certainly
as a kingbird on an electric wire,
some anonymous grub held hostage in his beak.
He beats the shelled insect against his perch;
the church bells echo from the tower,
counting hours slowly behind two rum glasses.
The seas roll in the distance,
chopped and angry, surely edging the island
from its quiet resting place.

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