The Buoy

He cropped up through the chops of the sea,
preserved in a buried trove
in an underneath goldmine grove
under a mackerel's skeleton key
and he's somehow always
been a part of her meaning of "we".

Along came a little red pin on a grid,
a marker of time on a map
that's always been rolled up,
wanting to be read and
wrapped in red ribbon,
and a tape-measure yarn of years and
the coordinates of their stopping to shift.
Driftwood was pulled ashore
by a bright orange ball,
he was tied to the bedrock,
the cockles and mussels
of a rock and roll romance.
A little upshot of an ocean-dance
who rolled in to town
And while he cleverly waited
and hid.
He was best thing in the treasure chest:
Our little bouy,
Syd.