the breeze like waves teasing
the fuel-fumed dock
But the broken nozzle demanded
a firm grip on the handle, and I
must be practical, after all
this time without wings or sails
Still, the wind whispers a call
to the weighted, would-be wayfarer,
the siren summons of the free
and boundless blue sky
And I on the cement stood
anchored by the greasy hose
beside the cigarette ads
