Miss Liberty

I watch men go under the pier. Hardhats, old bastards, young punks, fathers, uncles, the whole sorry lineup. Sometimes two at a time, maybe three, but always out ten minutes later. No smiles. No words. Just buttoning up, zipping up, walking back to whatever hole they crawled from.

I don’t go in there. Never have. Never will. I’ve read The Odyssey. I’ve seen enough.

Maybe it’s a mermaid in there. Some ancient, slippery thing. Maybe she sings for them, or screams, or just sits there with dead eyes and open legs. Maybe it’s not a mermaid at all, just some poor woman too tired to be anything else.

I know better than to look. I know of sirens. I know of sealskins. I know of songs. And I know of men.

So does she.