I know how a poem goes

The ship’s propulsion is working,

but the decks are on fire

And all the animals have escaped

And none of the girls will dance with you.

 

You christened this boat and sent her down the well- greased ways

The Captain and the Mate, the Purser and the Bos’n

Are all holograms, maybe from old films of your life

But they are not you.

 

Well provisioned, they may return glory and treasure

Or only tales of blinding snow, hardship and foundering

 

I have two polished stones from Lake Superior in my pocket

(Superior only to its immediate neighbors)

One is the stone of criticism and one the stone of praise

One is slightly larger than the other

But I never know which.

 

I play them in my fingers,

They roll anxiety like a desperate gambler

Or Captain Queeg and his tormenting strawberries.

I like to think that they still polish over time

Becoming shinier and infinitesimally smaller

Maybe with less clacking

 

Do not yell at the poems

And God, do not laugh

But your iron ship has sailed, you launched it

And some bright eyes will see

Your hand in its foundry, everywhere.

 

 

©2017   eolon