Atomic-Taco

He stands at the dock On a cold grey morning Tasting the salty air on his lips His figure as stout as a rock Warm fire cups itself in his pip The acrid smoke rising As the taste of tobacco fills his mouth While white seagulls float overhead Fog drifts from his lips Every time he exhales from his old lungs And along the cobblestone pier he walks Yet, the stout bearded man speaks not a word For all the world to the longshoreman Is but the docks and the port His only friend the sea His only spouse remains his ship