Rosehill Seafood
mary weathers poetry
above all I remember the coolness of that oyster bar where we spent childhood afternoons playing hooky Papa and me on tall vinyl covered stools pastels mint greens and baby blues the soft banter with the rough men shucking, shucking, shucking, Alan, Carl, the rest escape me the crisp AC and hum of refrigerator cases pink snapper, gray mullet, whiting filets but above all trays of ice cold oysters just released from their hard prison nestled in a pool of brine begging to be eaten atop saltines and off the cheap metal forks and yes sometimes straight from the shell a can of RC cola close by glistening with condensation icey sweetness a perfect foil for salt and sea you and me