Poems (Marianne Moore)/DOCK RATS

by Marianne Moore

DOCK RATS

There are human beings who seem to regard the place as craftily
 as we do—who seem to feel that it is a good place to come
 home to. On what a river; wide—twinkling like a chopped sea under some
   of the fines!: shipping in the

world: the square-rigged four-master, the liner, the battleship, like the two-
 thirds submerged section of an iceberg; the tug—strong moving thing,
 dipping and pushing, the bell striking as it comes; the steam yacht, lying
   like a new made arrow on the

stream; the ferry-boat—a head assigned, one to each compartment, making
 a row of chessmen set for play. When the wind is from the east,
 the smell is of apples; of hay, the aroma increased and decreased
   suddenly as the wind changes;

of rope; of mountain leaves for florists. When it is from the west, it is
 an elixir. There is occasionally a parrakeet
 arrived from Brazil, clasping and clawing; or a monkey—tail and feet
   in readiness for an over-

ture. All palms and tail; how delightful! There is the sea, moving the bulk-
 head with its horse strength; and the multiplicity of rudders
 and propellers; the signals, shrill, questioning, peremptory, diverse;
   the wharf cats and the barge dogs—it

is easy to overestimate the value of such things. One does
 not live in such a place from motives of expediency
 but because to one who has been accustomed to it, shipping is the
   most congenial thing in the world.