At "Tops of Brooklyn" on North 6th Street, Calabrese olives soak in a red wine brine, in one of six plastic barrels, on top a wooden pallet. I can't sample an olive while I'm in the store. I ladle
a bag full, and pay at the register. I want to tell the cashiers how much I enjoy them. They may know where the olives come from—the fires set by armies who named them. I want to say that I will eat a dozen
before the short walk home and there I'll eat the rest, the bag in my lap and a bowl on the coffee table. My dog will glare at me from his chair, but I am kneeling in the water near Corolla Lighthouse,
a beach the color of clay under rows of tobacco, packed down hard with pieces of all things. A giant shark rots thirty yards out of the water, its teeth missing, pulled with pliers, strung into necklaces, sold.