C comes to close,
chimes, “Oh! Hello,”
and commences
to catch water,
waiting for the ferry,
then the crossing,
and the long cruise
back to the city.
A bald eagle floats,
driftwood across the cant
tilt and lilt of the wharf:
tackle shops and taverns.
“Sure,” C says, though
sounds disappointed,
cooped up in Coupeville
open mouthed, chip
on shoulder shooting pool:
“7 ball, side pocket,”
but clips the cue
ball curling.
“A difficult shape,
a hard cut,
to make sense of,”
C says, scanning
sound’s mirror,
ceiling reflecting cold water.
Another crew of sailors
occupies the tavern,
drinking to a mate’s
re-upping:
“Here’s to Carl,”
amidst a cheer
and a clap.
C looks around,
fails to see
any circular irony.
The Coming of the Toads 