Hounds left behind
prowl the cold alleys.

The Island Theatre.
The Ritz Café.
Boarded, no shows, no
dark beers with winter fishermen.

The hotels and homes are shuttered:
Mrs. Lucille, Mrs. Doughty
have nothing for me tonight.
I pass one chance for break-in.

I walk the wharf a long time, my steps
echo over miles of water,
echo off the boards of the town, a
hollow sound.

The rows of houses are too elaborate
to be this deserted.
Their ornaments in wood compete with the gazebo
on Ocean Drive, empty itself,
and a cold place to sleep,
as fog drips over the island
and blurs the moon.

Down the road
a thin dog cries for hours at the
only street lamp left burning.