Nassau Harbor Near Paradise Bridge

Late afternoon blooms down

Through pink and green clouds.

Downtowners in bright office clothes

Stop by the old fishing boats.

To slurp down a raw conch before heading home.

A chalky white island

Evolves behind the fishing boats,

Emptied conch shells gleam underwater

Like so many skulls.

Old William Farrington and his last child, Cynthia,

Stop at the fishing boats for take-home:

Dried fly-specked strips of conch flesh.

They row out to their tiny houseboat, the pink one

With windows sawn crookedly,

Twin Evinrudes on the back.

A foreign sailboat has its own conch farm.

Americans string a dozen conchs together

By a hole in each pearlescent lip

And attach the line upward to their yacht.

The herd grazes peacefully in a meadow of sea grass,

Fattening up to be conch fritters.