Ken Krogue

He Doesn’t Know the Difference

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The spilled blood of dinosaurs

laps against the shore,

swallowing reflections of seabirds,

while the steel wreck shifts and spews.

Carrying him, in white boat shoes,

I don’t go near the surf.

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We stroll along the wooden wharf

and see above, the deep scar in the hillside;

where, hidden by late fog and emissions,

the pilot tore an outline, like a palm frond,

in the hillside. I hold him up to see

and point out the jagged edges,

he just watches the antics of the gulls

and doesn’t know the difference.

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We stand while the foot-bridge goes up

allowing barges to leave their berth

laden with waste, to dump out in the rift.

We see, later in the day, a whale washed up on shore,

his white belly bloated and large.

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I can’t find an anthill to show my son.

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Ken Krogue