Only a stellar sea lion
weighing two thousand pounds
can bark incessantly
and still gain a following.
Instagram. TikTok. Facebook.
Crowds gather
in the city by the bay
to watch Chonkers
sprawl across K-Dock
at Pier 39,
sunbathing, grunting—
no one accusing him
of wasting his time or talent.
It isn’t fair:
a massive marine mammal
earns devotion
for taking up space,
for being louder
than his boisterous California
sea lion buddies.
When I lived in San Francisco
in my early thirties,
on the edge of poverty,
in the throes of mental illness,
no one admired
my high-pitched growls,
no one praised me
for memorizing every word
to an Otis Redding song
as I wandered
Fisherman’s Wharf,
envy smelled like
salty sea air,
regret like sourdough,
loss like fish markets—
urine.
Tammy Smith is a poet and licensed clinical social worker from New Jersey. Her work appears or is forthcoming in ONE ART, Paterson Literary Review, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The New Verse News, and elsewhere. She received honorable mention in the Journal of New Jersey 2026 Poets Prize.
