The Charity Houses of Cape Cod

A Poem by Amy Nawrocki

Photo by Christopher Ryan on Unsplash

This is what Thoreau called those rickety and shingled bungalows

that braced the wind-swept dune sands with the kind of poise given to

the most humble of structures, when wooden planks know

they are no match for the tyranny and heartlessness

of sea storms. When he walked along the Cape Cod shoreline,

Thoreau’s mapmaker feet followed the path his mind sought between

the Nauset Plains and Highland Light, the urge to become

a little more salted seeping into his skin. In these small shacks

he found company, even when no other souls were about—comfort

from a lonely stretch of steady, barren beach. Shelter, whatever

form it takes—whether the lucky shade of the high cumulus,

or the calm, temporary sedation of low tide, or even a sloped roof

suspended with the architecture of nails

and grooved logs over a dry, simple place—shelter

gives respite of the sort that clams know pausing in the sand

before the gulls with their appetite and spite return to feed.