I rust in cages of my own making
I look for hidden reason amid the treason
Of how he pushed and pulled and then threw
Amongst the sardine run of crates of silver twinkling
Hatred his man into the salty watered nets
Shrieking orders in a language of detestation I don’t
Understand the face gnarled and knotted by years
Of looking. Not even the Shark Nets are up but
The Surfers are out and everyone’s having a ball including the gulls
but his eyes are pure water like the seas of lifetimes of having men
Younger then he calling him boy and his dirty cap pulled down lower
Than him sinking into the sand. Sunday continues all head home
For a fish braai and some Lion Lager or maybe a stout. A good day’s
Work.