shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Mark J. Mitchell

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Fisherman's Wharf, Holy Thursday

The parking lot is composed of small lakes,
enough to wet the tourists socks. By noon
they'll be gone. April squalls conjure whitecaps
near the abandoned island and wind croons
across the wharf. Yeast clouds float past. Bread bakes-
bread always bakes. Seagulls complete their laps.

The sun blinks through the cools west as if God
were flashing her face, cheering the gulls
in their sad hunt. A bad guitarist nods
at snapped strings, his case innocent of change
as he is free of talent. The winds shift
again, blowing trash past shops with hot rod
t-shirts while two teenagers rearrange
too-short skirts. The sky returns to its dull
gray but beyond the chaliced bridge, fog lifts.