Eye level with the swells
I can’t see the rain pock
the surface, just drops jumping
back up, dragging gulf salt
and water with them, how rain
makes ocean a field of fountains.
A pelican glides by, head pulled back
beyond her shoulders, beak jutting out,
neck bent into a “s” pipe,
the sort used for sinks, for commodes,
for flushing smut down quick.
Something in a pelican reminds me
of a woman who knows she’d look regal
if only she can keep her skirt down.
And me? I find myself everyday
wishing for a dress made of water.