The cellar has a fisherman, or so the neighbors say.
He’s only here four weeks a year; he never comes to stay.
They send his letters to the house, addressed to unit D,
that sit in bundles on the stoop when he goes out to sea.

His face is creased and leathered like a worn-out pair of shoes.
He drinks away the endless days as he awaits the news
that Cap’n’s…