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
When the weathers bad
No punctuation beyond the needles.