Hooky on a Thursday Afternoon

The little towhead raced his shadow to the end

of the wooden pier. His father,

thin legs and decks shoes, followed and whistled

a tune he’d never heard, noticed

the heat that poured down through salt spray

the dozens of fishermen lining the railings

the pair of pelicans that silently waited for scraps.

The little towhead leaned over and loosed a ball of spit

watched it sail in the wind

join the sea.

The little towhead took his father’s hand

pulled him to the ice cream shack.