From Arc 52, published by the Arc Poetry Society in 24.I can’t blame youfor claiming this place as your ownpersonal theme park.For you,there is only summer when every curvein the road brings a new photograph—red cliffs climbing out of the sea, field upon fieldof white blossoms, a wharf where boatschristened The Maggie-Mae and Aurora Dawndepart for the fishing grounds.How authentic:the old salt at the helm and the boyuntying the bow line. You might pausea minute and imagine everything you seetransformed—a winter gale blowingoff the gulf for days, cabin fever, accidentsinvolving teenagers, icy roads, alcohol.The bare bones of living here—then returnto applying sun screen and minding the kidsdon’t drown as the tide comes in.The fine art of self-deprecation:I laugh along when you feel obligedto affect a bad Maritime accentor complain about the loaded hay wagonleading a mile-long procession into town. I waittables for five bucks an hour and smileas you like it:Here, let mefasten this plastic bib around your neckwhile the cook in the kitchendrops the lobster, still living, into boiling water.