Port Lavaca Bay

Nine diesel-droning shrimp boats plow Port Lavaca Bay

Furrowed wakes behind them, they’ve been out there all day

Back and forth across the field of stagnant sweating brine

Nine droning diesel shrimp boats are working overtime

Paint-flaked bows split ocean sod, the nets asplay behind

Dragged across the water by the drumming diesel whine

This deep in the afternoon the harvest must be thin

Causing them plow the rows not once but twice again

They should have made the docks by noon, men rinsing down the decks

In brutal heat past three o’clock, in vain they drag the nets

“ The money won’t be good today”, the pacing women say

“It’s the hardpan of the ocean, this Port Lavaca Bay”