In a Maine fishing port,

I smell a ghost.

He’s damp with brine.

He reeks of cod.

Maybe I even see him.

At least, there’s a shape

in the fog,

a clump like flopping sea-weed

making its way past

where the fisherman statue

stands in daylight.

He’s not alone.

Lights flicker here and there,

are part of his chilly brigade.

I stop in at the local diner

for a plate of seamy white chowder.

It’s the one dish

that glimmers from the menu.

It’s the food of the dead.