A Good Pier My face is in the sun and my shins are warm with it. Peace settles down around my over-worked mind. It is not yet noon, and the bay breeze is gentle. The pier itself seems pleased with the way the day   Is unfolding. I become resolute in my bench-sitting, Lifting my chin, closing my eyes against the city In the distance. Opening my ears to the lap-lapping Of waves against the knees of the pier, I hear   Snatches of Greek spoken behind me, The local dialect of the fishermen Who, with the divers’ patient dogs,…