Have you seen the boats,
the sailboats,
moored to the docks,
held back by their ropes and anchors
like gold chains glittering alight of gaudy decoration,
with usage showing more practical purpose?
The waves are beating harsh this day
awash against the concrete steps of the bay,
lapping at my bare feet.
Man-made concrete I ground myself in.
The waves pulsate awry,
wind blowing raw and harsh with words of warning to my presence
against all further intrusion.
The waves become my tears
full of fears
of now,
and tomorrow.
I sit by the dock of the bay,
listening to a song in my head
that won't go away, like the lonely wail
of the southest gale. . .
wailing in my head.
That empty echo of lonliness.
*Grateful acknowledgements to Otis Redding, 1968.
Sitting in the morning sun
I'll be sitting when the evening comes
Watching the ships roll in
And I watch 'em roll away again
Sitting on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
I'm just sitting on the dock of the bay
Wasting time
I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the 'Frisco bay
'Cause I had nothin to live for
And look like nothing's gonna come my way
So I'm just...
Look like nothing's gonna change
Everything still remains the same
I can't do what ten people tell me to do
So I guess I'll remain the same
Sittin here resting my bones
And this loneliness won't leave me alone
It's two thousand miles I roamed
Just to make this dock my home
Now, I'm just... (Whistle)
