Edison’s Wharf

The sun hasn’t been out an hour
and already it’s hot.  Sweat forms
on the dark tan of my forehead
like tiny diamonds on display.

The sky and the ocean embrace, casting
everything in the richest, royal blue.
I take the salt air deep into my lungs
and the scent of just-caught fish arouses
my hunger.  I’m buying langostinos.

As I navigate through the merchants’ tables
and grills, smiles and waves are exchanged.
The succulent aromas leap at me
and I almost stumble.  I see my guy.

¡El Gigante Blanco!  I shake his calloused hand
as he greets me, and I see what I’ve come for.
Cinco libras, por favor.  It’s more than I need
but I won’t waste his time buying less
and it costs as much as a pack of cigarettes.
Gracias, señor.

I walk back, past the sidewalk grills
with their roiling soups and searing meats.
Children play across the street.

Why do I have to leave?


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.