The tiresome creak of the harbor—
fishing sloops at anchor, trying their lines,

or the crestfallen wharf building, clapboards
scoured of the last drip of paint,

its tin sinks, bigger than horse tubs,
groaning with senatorial lobsters

and rude spitting steamers.
Perhaps just the bridge on its last legs,

or piers, rather, shifting over the tidal river
that never changed its mood for the better.

Of a Sunday, when sailboats tilted
toward the river mouth—Cuttyhunk

and Martha’s Vineyard beyond—
someone unseen cranked open the bridge,

using a complicated system of gears
that required an hour of fuss.

The Packards and Fords backed up
along the approach strewn with oyster shells,

the cars filled with quarrelsome children,
mothers fanning themselves with a sandy catalogue,

and fathers thumbing the cellophane
from a new packet of Lucky Strikes or Camels,

wheeling the smoke out cranked-down windows
as if they had all the time in the world.

“One day, we’ll sail there,” my father always said.