What are you doing here,
good ship Demitus? We are picking the three foot high letters off
in duck bills and candy light feather flaps and they go
easy into the small laps of brown capped waves.
What are you doing here?
The sand this far inland is fit for
toes and maybe socks for ugly toes,
bird feet, and bread crumbs, but I am sorry
to see your guns pointed at the sky and rust
treating you so poorly. I try to wear mine with a little
snap and collar and a wink, but you
are not even well enough to sink with grace.
If I pitch them, the balls of bread go
high above and the little ducks think
they might take wing, but wait instead.
Wake up S.S. Wake up, or maybe snore a little.
Tell me you are not dead already. Tickle a webbed foot
or two, or do not, Demitus. It is okay to sleep and I know
sometimes I do
get a little bit high on maybe and could have
you any shells in that pocket book for me
I might borrow? I will listen to your bones
and the little ducks bleat
and while we gaze at the sun in another summer afternooned
I will do as the greats have done when war
is out of style,
the little ducks not too bread drunk know:
bathe the sun, asleep.
