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Photograph by Katie M. Zeigler

At the Lobster Pound


Andre F. Peltier
Poetry

In from Boston and Cape Cod

where we saw nary a humpback

on our rain-drenched

whale watching cruise,

we spent the morning

driving through Acadia,

through birch, juniper, jack pine.

A red fox crossed the road,

and dad helped the giant

snapping turtle to the bog.

The Silurian granite sheets

running to the waves,

the waves where those humpbacks

sounded and played.

We saw more from the car

than we saw from our

Boston based boat.

And we played in sea caves;

we were Joe and Frank

foiling smugglers

and saving our chums.

 

Late lunch on picnic tables

floating above Bar Harbor.

Garlic butter bliss.

My first taste of lobster.

A buck a piece in those days.

Dad had a beer

as we enjoyed ice cold

bottles of Moxie.

We ate and watched the ocean

roll in from St. John, Yarmouth,

The Bay of Fundy.

We pointed at the gulls

with ridged index fingers

like the Moxie Man.

We smiled and read the future

on those North Atlantic winds.

The winds mussed our hair

and the world was open

before us.

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