Sunday at the Marina

Water in the marina, clear as diesel
fish swimming close to surface
in place of seagulls,
which know they stink of human
waste.

This is not the fish that
will feed the five thousand.

A child strews bread crumbs into the water,
ignored by the fishes.

Seagulls shriek and fall from the sky.
A man drops a glass of gin and tonic, on
the deck of yacht,
claws at his chest.

Ambulance and a nervous doctor
tells him not to smoke cigars
too late.

Young widow,
I hope she sells the bloody yacht.