old prose

It's just a quiet corner we call our home.
Nothing fancy and she's aged, like anything else around town,
by time, the sun and storms.
But we're on the high ground, the roof don't leak
and it's raised above the flood line.
Year 'round dry.



Besides, it's only some old man and his rusty dog so who really gives a shit.
Like the song goes, "I ain't botherin' no one I don't need to bother and nobody's botherin' me."

Trade out a third of every day to a man for pay.
It's less than making ends meet, but enough keep 'em close and a world away from living on the street.
The man knows it, I know it
and that's what seals the deal.


Halfway between the job and the night are
a handful of friends.
Bellied up to the outdoor bar, we breath the salt air
and talk about times before conch trolleys and trains.
When the shrimping was good and the Navy fed the town.

It blows like the wind, change does.
Sometimes it lifts you up and sometimes it blows you down.
Nothin' anybody can do to about it, just take it like it comes.