Old Sailor
each wrinkle a route on the map of memory,
every age spot a star that devoured a wish.
a few silver tufts
are the only limbs he has left
which dance with storms.
his palms cup a cane
carved from an old plank.
his ocean-blue wool
reminds of a long-ago girl
who said the tide would lead
when it retreated like the hem of her dress.
his skeleton, he thinks as a ship
cannoned with muscle, ligamented with rigging.
any yet it now it suffers such tatters.
his spine a crooked, barnacled mast.
his eyes--such foggy compasses--wander.
his legs heavy anchors
bereft of allegiance to either ship or current.
and yet raindrops still sojourn
across the countryside of his cheeks.
they diminish, yes, as all must do
meek of glow, so it must be,
led by moonlight,
sinking into water.
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2/19/26... eh never going to be good
7/8/24
War is here. I sent an op-ed to a few newspapers. Aside from that, poetry.
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