The State Versus . . .

They come in ten-ton dump trucks, blunt
state employees, their heavy-duty multi-plies
digging eight-inch gullies in the sand. Bullies,
they haul junk rock to extend the jetty.

Invincible cigars in their fingers, they bite lemon
crullers and suck down regulars in their slickers
and truck cabs: a yellow convoy patrolling
shore roads for pay, tailgate chains rattling.

And tonight their gang will roam the night streets
of Niantic’s jukeboxes and dying lobsters, buy
beers and Special pizzas in the seafood diners,
humming chrome to rope and broken piers.

I sang here. I tried my first lines in the swirls
of the tides and river currents—
Old Lyme raining towards Aries,

the pounding sign
and beginning of the star’s cycle over
the Connecticut and glimmering Sound.

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