My fork dips as the drawbridge rises, sets,
a current no car cares countenance.
On the causeway the anglers thread their lines
deep yet cast their hopes seaward, it’s a test

of the mulling water and so’s today’s
offering, a secular dayboat grouper,
bien cuit. Astride the fish some wrinkled peas,
a jaundiced potato, repoussé,

while through the fevered glass the sun though low
runs hot upon my cheek, sets seething
on the sea. The beer tastes good.
And it’s good my plate is full, so’s yours,

for should we wait until the tide recedes,
we’d find it more than we should need.  Add that
to dinner’s mounting tab, this
curried privilege on which we feed.

Bruce Robinson’s recent work has appeared in Panoply, Pangyrus, Maintenant, Rattle, Open:JA&L, and Spoon River. “We grow sea-green at last and coldly die in brininess and volubility.”