They leave every morning

between the same two cranes

and kiss their wives goodbye

that are not actually wives at all

but light houses

And the water droplets that are

splashed up from the wake are like

tiny little tears

Begging them not to go

But they go, none the less

and spend the entire, temperate 

melancholy day

bickering back and forth in broken

Spanish and Portuguese 

About how to best catch enough crab

to fill their quota

And when night falls their lighthouse

wives call them home for supper

And they obediently return

covered in sand and salt and stink

To eat dinner for two

By themselves

Published by Alison Howe