Fisherman’s Wharf in late summer
and they’re gutting them by the dozen
a few feet from the crowded patio
where diners shell out
half their paycheques for the latest catch,
take pictures of their meals
for Instagram likes
and isn’t it true that tourism
is all that’s keeping this place going,
as though home can be shed
for a weekend getaway, for pastel
boutiques and restaurants
that shut down during storm season,
for the pageantry of sea lions,
how you can buy a plate
of freezer-burnt herring for five bucks
and toss them in the harbour
slick with motor oil where maws snap
and seagulls compete for scraps,
where one wrong slip of an engine
sends propeller clean through dorsal—

The last time I saw a humpback
in these waters, I traded it like currency,
a scene so rare it’s still pulsing on the plate.