Lobsterman pulls and baits traps, straining now;
Swerves to miss the lobster pots, yellow, green.
He’s worked these boats, since when he was thirteen.
His Dad, Granddad and brothers showed him how.
He wipes his face with one more stinky shred
Of his Van Halen shirt, one he’d thought lost.
The store sells rags; he can’t afford the cost.
He puts his Red Sox hat back on his head.
He loves his boat, his gear, he loves his traps;
Hates he’s out to sea the whole damn day.
The kids, his wife know that he cannot stay
At home ’til winter, snow and all that crap.
For now he loves the ocean. As he steers
Out past the cove, the seagulls fill his ears.