LEFT TO SAY
The sea is heaving witness
as we age reverently, even blindly.
so much for wet blisters to educate us,
for lessons we ignored.
Her ship will come for her eventually
contrite crew with hung heads –
apologizing for this lengthy
and torturous delay.
But it is not her stay or my leave
that taxes, only the sound
of the water, sloshing and sucking against
an empty dock.
And nothing dreams, stale recollections
Sitting outside my captain’s door
Trying to articulate my thoughts
Throwing my shoes overboard.