"Boat Trip"
First of all, fuck the lookout.
He never told us a goddamn thing
until it was on us. Useless bastard,
well and finally gone!
I hate retrospection. Hate it,
but I have these surges of it
that clamor for recognition,
so I give in. Then I see us,
like a dream, too real, or unreal maybe,
not quite right, but probably accurate.
I see us out here in deep water,
far from land, just the way I like it.
We've seen some shit, all sorts of it.
Dead babies for starters.
That'll stick with you.
Family gone certifiably mad.
Secrets crept out to taint
the holidays with their cancerous bones.
Bad phone calls. The drip, drip, drip
of disappointment in everything
and everybody. And so forth.
The usual heartbreak of breathing.
Some days I think of the money.
Good Lord! We drank it, wore it,
gave it away in a million dull,
predictable ways.
I think about the freedom
it might have bought, but that's bullshit.
Mostly I think of touching it.
The delight of all that currency
under my ass as you asserted
your God ordained right.
That's crossed my mind.
And then I see us out here,
eyes shuttered to the inevitable storm,
just you and I, the captain and his crew,
left to sail this thing
right off the ever-loving edge.
© 2006 Dale McLain
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