Lobstering

The whipping wind
and
my hair do not get along.
Nor
do my nostrils
with the stench of
fermenting
bait.

The whaler sloshes
up to the buoy and he reaches
out to grab
it. Wondering
what
he will discover
when
it finally reaches the deck.

Salty hands
and
salty boat
and
salty sea.