I can’t feel my toes,
and I imagine them all turning blue in my shoes. Like me,
the gulls brace themselves against the cold ocean air
            of a Northeastern March.

Empty strings of lights
droop from domesticated trees outlining
the streets. Like a wasteland flecked with
stray sightseers, trinket lovers,
            shot-glass collectors.

But these cobblestones pay mute tribute
to the stonemasons of The Neck,
Casco Bay recalls its tea-loving settlers,
and all that was once Machigonne
            is not gone.

It’s just hiding behind the pub
on the waterfront, where characters
from a thirty-something mid-life crisis film
parade the midnight streets in drunken agony,
            pining.

            “Resurgam!” cries the phoenix, rising
            from the ashes of Independence Day fires.

In summer the streets swarm
with transplants from Boston
and commuters from Cape Elizabeth,
all piloting Mazdas, Mustangs, Mercedes-Benz.
I feel scaly and disoriented – today’s catch packed in crates,
            out of water.

Every fourth they swarm the harbor,
separated from the low-income residents
and wandering non-residents of Munjoy Hill who lean
their swaying bodies against the remaining battlements
            of the U.S.S. Maine.

Now there’s a gap in the harbor
where the Queen Mary sat last summer.
We paid 20 bucks for a tour boat,
and circled her girth. “Look! Natives!”
they might have cried, leaning forward
            in their deck chairs.

She spewed forth tourists to help
the economy. They enjoy our fishing boats,
our lobsters, our accents. They call this
            Vacationland,

because they don’t live here.