A hunched figure silhouetted at dusk,

nearly done with his daily grind, reeking of fish.

Weary hands grasp the net, pulling in the sea’s bounty

Small, glistening bodies writhing in the net

The smell of clam chowder wafts onto the wharf.

Hems trailing behind the elegantly dressed,

heels catching on the rough boards of the dock.

Grabbing a bucket, he makes his way through the gathering,

which parts, avoiding his awful stench.