“Oil Spill” by John Grey


Oil slick looks and smells like home-brew.
Cajun fisherman's out on deck,
scar down his right cheek.
knife tucked in his boots.
Nets flutter in the gulf wind.
Coastline's so dead
there's no point dropping them.
His eyes can't close for anger.

From inlet to shore,
the air's as alive
as the sea is buried black:
the cuss of crabbers,
the flap of washed-up fish,
the tears of kids
whose weekends used to summit
on the bayou with their fathers.

That night, plenty of home-brew
to drown plenty of sorrows.
Not a drop spilt.