your words circle the table setting
like seagulls above an ancient pier —

we are tied securely to the table
and you are saying and saying and
with staccato clink of silver and china 
you scatter the pieces of your day —

if only for this and if it weren’t for that
and all of it going straight to hell —

until suddenly then
with sharp scrape of chair on tiles
you are away again to the streets
a weary but briefly unburdened trawler
out into the gathering night and
back to your brooding sea.