Home to a dark house smelling of smoke and the house matching my smell but its smoke of wood, mine of stale bar. Songs on the radio on the way home. You and me babe, how about it.

My mind spins when it is windy and warm. Along the causeway they are building a walkway named after a friend of mine killed there. It will interfere with one of my favorite morning views, sort of like to suicide fence on the A. Pyatt Andrews. I hope this is more successful.

Met a man in the bar tonight who remembered my aunt Judy. Him deaf across the bar, raising his glass and I raising mine, to Judy. When I was 16 and ready to escape Gloucester and the way it had trapped me Judy was sailing in the Pilot from Gloucester to California, through the Pananma Canal. Her husband Ross was not popular with my family. I spent some time with them and the rest of the crew on the boat as it was docked near the state fish pier. A boy on board not too much older than me at the time gave me a sprig of sea lavender he had gathered somewhere on a previous sail. I still have it in one of my many little woodern boxes. Long after Judy died, long after my first sailing adventure. Long after her brother and I cried, drunk, in the cabin of his Mug Up in Belfast Harbor, singing songs to Judy.