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Dead Ship On Live Water
Rounding one corner of this century:
ship's been good about plodding on in spite
of mutiny's whip. Doubts I've been having
are nesting deep in pocket, but that's fine;
an optimist is less prepared for woe.
From rope slung by an unforeseen vessel,
men crash like waves on deck and steal away
with goods carried short, or furthest to date -
robbed from the belly of the cargo hold.
All attempts to anticipate have failed.
Twice my wits have failed me; twice I've driven
this beaten pile into treachery,
only to be shown that life favors none.
Shot full of gulping wounds and with the mast
aflame; the day's lessons were lost on me.
Still I have the cobwebs for company.
Drunk on thick dust that's gathered at the base
of the bottle and the salt that's soaking
into my skin like embalming fluid.
There never was a better way to drift.
What crew I'd had are long dead; abandoned
by hope and the desire to see home.
And now that hope leaves me, as well at sea,
absent of the needle pointing towards
north. I'll take my peace with a powder slug.
