The Catch of His Dreams
The midnight ambience is gauzy, underwater-like, suffused with moonglow and the occasional glint of a distant star clinging to the firmament like a barnacle
to the hull of a boat. Below the damaged upper deck where I’m standing, the abandoned travel trailer, hurricane-tumbled to its final resting place, looms
like a medusa whose hair's a swarm of slithering shadows, or the skull of a drowned shrimper lost at sea, its paneless windows his eye sockets through which shrimp
dart to the dark safety of a bony dome, a drowned shrimper drifted gently down to Davy Jones's locker, his weary mind and the catch of his dreams forever one.