A flock of gulls hovered and squawked
high over a dead water rat,
though not interested
in pecking the flesh,
more curious, like when that
fender bender catches a human eye.
The tide brings in much
from foreign beginnings;
bottles, rubbers, filter tips
all mixing with kelp and killies.
Capt.Lou drifts by,
a large charter vessel carrying
the weekend fishermen
carrying more beer than bait,
but hell, they’ve put in their week,
now it’s time to put out to sea.
That dead water rat
and assorted trash, rises
and falls in the boat’s wake
as those gulls follow the vessel
out to where bait will be tossed
and their squawk will fill
blue skies, dive bombing at times,
to snatch a bit of survival.
Jim Senetto about Jim Senetto
My father was quiet; loving, provider but quiet…I never knew a grandfather, his side, or his brother lost at 28 and I was told not to ask. So quiet I was…me, the quiet one, second echelon in a group of friends…quiet in the confessional booth I was brought to…why tell a stranger, in a dark booth sitting behind mesh, my woes, thinking it just might be his woes were worse than mine (I’ve later learned, some in collars should have sat on the other side of that mesh window, confessing). I was drafted in ’66, taught how to kill strangers and my mouth began to question why and with some friends now dead from bullets of insanity, I became alive, vowing never to be as quiet as my father. He had his reasons, I’m sure, old school and all of that, but I had to break the chain. Art, photography, music, poetry is my voice and it’s all fair game…say it loud, some will listen and that is good enough for me.