TAMPA BAY, MORNING FOG
The bay is so white. Peaceable. Everything is
lost in light. Even the normally boisterous
steel-workers are perched on cables,
gazing at the flowering light,
thinking what they'll tell their wives,
later, over beers. When the juke-box slows:
the homosexual construction boss
far below them on the caisson dock
is lost in thought. Occasionally, out of habit,
or maybe the hell of it, he'll look up at the hazy bridge
as though he could see it. He knows the boys
are goofing off. He doesn't care.
He loves the fog, the way the light