Wharf Cats

Black mussels crust wet columns

pushing down through surface sand
to something solid, deep
where pile drivers hit
repeated concussions that scatter fish
while the Pacific takes its hits,
until a wooden platform
extends a stage over the washing sea
where my grandparents run concessions,
carnival nomads who sold their trailer,
calling this home for the raising of kids.

Fisherman’s Wharf was my first backyard
where I tamed cats that never walked on land,
nor would I, no need, with all the levels of life
under bare feet, barnacled columns,
rooftops of shops burning my feet--
you learned to leap from mark to mark,
until a layer of tar took the function of shoes,
no scrubbing past the black calluses,
personal barnacles branding me wharf child
who never would have walked on land.

If we could have stayed suspended
over columns deep in blue,
if the raging decade and its war
hadn’t mixed its smell with the fresh caught fish,
glazed eyes of the shocked and damned
haunting the stage at night,
no cleaning station with a hose
to rinse the unused parts
falling where the wharf cats waited,
licking themselves clean
when the fishing was done.

Columns below and roofs above—
The burning of tar indelibly inked
Layers beyond the washing of feet.                                                                               
                                                                                 June 19, 2012


                                                                               


Redondo Beach Pier, California
c.1960