Ghost Writer and Other Poems

Afternoon bright and a bit of wind so I took the high road above the shore to settle too much corporate lunch. Out on the rocks the fisherman stood old and brown with basket and line saw me staring and blew me a kiss with debonair flourish of raggy old arm. So I blew one back to my own surprise and we packed up laughing, and I'd swear his dirty triumphant thumb nearly hit the sky.