Film reels reek of cobbled streets and shelves,
spinning chum and Jell-O. Dark, narrow
spaces lined with spices, stacked with boats
stoke a charm of sea and cinnamon.

Lobster traps, buoys, Lou’s Fish Market,
Libby’s Peaches, Campbell’s Soup, and Grandma’s Molasses
mock birch shelves with striped paper
and barnacled posts that branch from the housed sea.

Beyond the docks and shelves, doors unhinge,
wild with waves, cans and bottles disarrayed.
A full pantry, a full port, a full breath
of salt or vinegar, fish or flour.

Shucking fat oysters for stew,
I feel the wind in the belly of the boom.