Anatomy of the Sea

I astonishingly order my
fries with gravy as I have done for
the last thousand low tides.  The diner
fills up like a fish tank.  A body
slips like a boat without a bottom.
Men deprived of long oceanic
awakenings try to put a spell
on the waitress with a biscuit.
Up pops a clear potential for a
reckoning but we make him walk home
before trouble starts slapping.  I wipe
the flotsam from my brow.  There would be
a hundred ways to set this moment
off in another direction
if only we had a finger-post.
Tonight, we will make love again on
the surface, and afterwards. I'll swim
you home.