OF THE FIELD
I have the eyes of the mob glaring
into the night - a thing they haven't
made a noun for yet. Sitting here,
in the ferry terminal, on some cold
and damp February night, I am
wondering why. It's probably 1988.
We came here on a whim, the three
of us - freezing in our too-thin jackets
to ride the ferry back and forth. It
was inestimable old-days stuff. No one
does that any more, and this was the
old ferry terminal, not the one they
have there now. A few meager shops
sold things to eat. Hot dogs, chips
and junk, rolls and cupcakes. There
was a nut-stall, selling chick-peas,
which we'd always buy in a little
bag to feed the sea gulls and pigeons.
And we tried eating some ourseves,
always, but they weren't that good.
The chick peas, not the birds. Sea
gulls would dive behind the boat
for anything thrown in the wake.
Pigeons would peck them off the
floor, cooing, with their funny walk.
As a pigeon walks, each step also
bobs its head. It's more a strut.
Funny to watch. I guess they
were more made for flying. I
remember, as well, the horrid
coffee - just bad stuff everywhere.
Real swill, but people drank it.
There weren't any Starbucks in
1988, none of those masterful
special roasts and blends either.
Coffee was brown, hot water
brown, and you drank it like a
bum, with his last dime, thankful.
On this freezing, damp cold
night, no matter, it warmed
us from the inside out.