On the pier in Bahrain you could look into the gulf
and watch balletic squid swirling ‘round the pilings;
in the arab evening they shimmer with colors,
pale blues and pinks and mysterious mottled greens
that vanish when you drag them to the air.
There are so many you imagine you could simply
reach into the water and pluck them like courgettes
with your bare hands, half a dozen for a harem snack.
In the distance is the US Navy ship LaSalle
and there are things on board the ship I should be doing.
But instead I sit there on the wharf and smoke
my English cigarettes, my back against the bollard
and watch the magic, dancing cephalopods.
We squids have got to stick together.