manning the square-rigged caravel
it’s two in the morning and I find myself
chasing the obstinate moon across the north
atlantic en route to newfoundland
the rum had run out days ago
and tonight we tapped the second
of three kegs of hopped ale we
commandeered at gunpoint from an
english galleon with a skeleton crew
the monster waves are angry as hell
thanks to the bulging gibbous
but I’ve managed to tie myself down
at the base of the long beak
getting bashed and spitting out
marching orders
to all the flying ghostfish of pirates past
about the square-rigged caravel
march two thousand sixteen
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