Bob Bradshaw

I wave to the tourists
with my free hand. Bye!
they shout as they pack
into their cars with their children
and their cameras.

They have lives to lead
and kids to put through school.
I have a sea looming over me.

It was an accident that I happened
by this spigot. Plugging a dike
with my finger wasn't a career move.

The town fathers shake their heads.
"What about your neighbors below?
Would you have a town
five hundred years old wash away?
"Everyone makes sacrifices," they say.
I dream of removing my finger,
of starting again.
But there is satisfaction
in seeing people in the markets below,
the cargo ships anchored
at the docks.

Still, it isn't the same as walking
a girl with a Spanish accent
and an eager voice