Blue Noon, Starboard

The wall keeps its own weather—
white light stacked on the lamps, plate on plate.

Benches run the length in rust-brown syllables.
Two coats, two men, not talking,
each turned to the sea as if it were a task.

Air carries salt the way a pocket keeps coins:
quiet, undeniable, cold to the palm.
Boot soles remember wet steps from somewhere else.
A plastic cup warms in one hand, a tame wave.

All this room and still a hinge of distance—
their shadows never meet;
each man keeps his harbour.

Midway a gull scribbles past the rail;
metal answers with a faint, clean ringing.
They lean into the blue; like names settling on a map—
not nearer, only steadier for leaning—

until a wind lifts, sideways, ordinary;
benches shiver; the ocean writes another line.