Tattoo


I see a tattoo
on the shoulder blade of a man
who must have been a seaman at some time.
Navy of the working kind.

The letters on his skin are faded blue,
diffused. He is eating lobster
pulled by others from local waters.

Mostly makes a living now by delivering
chopped firewood, a currency hereabouts.
The back of him bears the rhyme:

When the weathers good
Stack wood
When the weathers bad
Be glad

No punctuation beyond the needles.




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