Drugged by Oregon

At the jetty,

on the beach,

high noon,

sunshine splintering fog.

Ospreys fishing,

humans fishing,

fishermen drinking,

rock hounds hounding,

surfers surfing,

a seal joins them,

turning in the teal.

I build a fort.

It frames the surfers.

A surfer girl walks into the frame.

I miss the magazine cover.

Back at the car,

a tourist puffs a doobie,

A CB man talks rockfish,

then talks about a cabin boat

bustin’ for the bar.

Waves rip into the jetties at weird angles.

I hear CB man say, “Jesus, what an idiot. He’s not going to make it.”

I watch the show. I’ve never seen a boat flip at a bar.

They’d be dead in 30 seconds. Not wearing life jackets,

although they’re right there in the boat as required by law,

but not to wear them.

The precedent for refusing to wear masks has always been around.

Look at ignoring seat belts. (Dead)

Look at not wearing a helmet when riding a motorcycle. (Dead)

Look at no chaps chainsawing down a tree. (Dead)

CB man is doing the play by play.

An osprey flies toward me—right at me, head level. It’s got an eel wriggling in its talons. He’s going to drop the creature on the hood of my car. I’ll fry it up for supper!

The boat made it.

The Osprey held on.


I’m high.