Broadsbeat Police

Their wake massages the neck of the river
The shadows of cranes swing over the water
The fish in the net is at least a five-pounder
Sycamore seeds in the grass.

are dry as papyrus. My scab is a slither
The plates of my back are in need of a waiter
The hairs on my arms are becoming blonder
My handwriting is a mess.

The Queen of Light's figurehead is a sunbather
Workmen are sewing the buildings tighter
The fisherman squirms like a known offender
The willows only toss

their locks. The cops look fierce in this weather
Drums on the bridge, where the view is better
Someone somewhere is free to wander
but we must settle for this.