There is a wall of 55 gallon drums
stacked up like a windstop where
our campsite faces the bluff.
It keeps the assumptive ocean breeze off
our backs like a red blue and rust brick wall
of giant dented soda cans.
they are three deep
but our tents still get beat around
the bush when the small-craft-advisory
storms pick up.
and when the morning sun bakes
the wall of 55 gallon drums
after those cold alaskan nights
the pressure changes make the barrels
groan and swell at their creases
making B class thunderclaps
like communist made tympany
in an hour long alarm-clock.
Tonight i will make fish and chips
with peas and carrots from a can.