No Lament for The Departed
leaving Dairy Queen, shuttered:
to keep company the pale winter sun.
Sea air takes her queue:
divest of human particles,
dressing in her palest blue.
White and black quilt throbs: dense,
undulating: speckled pattern visible:
swoosh, the gulls are home.
Battalions of white plastic bags
guard the beach.
Gulls stab at memories of meals,
bits of colour,
by the tourists who have gone home.
Errant signs mimicking spring
shoot up, announcing vacancies.
Leaving locals to reassemble on front porches,
joining crickets, to harmonize in winters rhythm.
Only the Post Office remains unchanged.
Local stores offer familiar faces
bearing genuine smiles:
their summer inventory occupying garages
of the tourists at home.
along with the dreary snapshots
interchangeable with every other year;
more diluted than last,
the tourists have a surprise.
No oohs, no aahs.
Gentle dignity of the head
the once graceful body
of a young female deer.