The air is thick and clear
like a fog that isn’t there
you wear it as you walk
down wooden planks
now decades old
chewed by time
Fish guts fill the cracks
Elbows along the edges
over its knife marked rails
fishermen hang about
from shore to end
looking out
talking loud
on Friday evening
in St Petersburg
An inverted pyramid
locked from the outside
decorated in birds
painted over in white
An eyesore loved by all
A summer’s night
in the old pier’s final year