Small cities clus­ter in­dis­tinctly around the Puget Sound,

slant­ing from the sur­round­ing hills in a shared grey.

The sea smell hits just when the stop­lights begin,

where foggy alley trash be­comes tidal wrack,

and mid­day crowds cir­cle the gum-speck­led con­crete.

Whether in im­i­ta­tion or re­luc­tant ac­cep­tance,

our lives here re­sign them­selves to half sub­mer­sion.

Dawn: cof­fee col­ored cab­ins

Dusk: cedar tav­erns

We strug­gle for en­ergy while water streams down the win­dows.

Like mol­lusks, we strengthen our cling,

hop­ing to con­sume some­thing in­vis­i­ble from the pass­ing tides.

So we must cel­e­brate a life piled upon the dead,

singing at night to keep the con­verted fac­to­ries above the mud,

look­ing to thrift store Carhartts for work ex­pe­ri­ence.

The home­less man with the drum­sticks

tests the signs and light­posts for each days res­o­nance.  

Out­side the café, he twists nearly spent to­bacco shav­ings

into what was once a sailors pipe.

This col­lec­tion of cities is ori­ented out­ward-

to­ward fish and trade, leav­ing and sep­a­ra­tion.

But even from the shore, the old ocean,

which causes all the joy and de­pres­sion

felt when the un­known is un­know­able,

is suck­ing us back down through the piers

like van­ish­ing in­dus­tries.

Puget Sound - Shan­non Smith