The Ship Slips from Its Moorings

​The ship slips from its moorings, the sailor
Wants to go back home. The rain
Spatters the earth until it seeps
Mist. The light shines through the pane.

Out in the park, the strong man does pushups,
A woman is feeding the squirrels, the birds,
She buys a bum a square meal,
He mumbles a few thank you words

But that hunted look he has is gone,
He says he’ll find his own way home,
The sunlight pulses on his eyes,
He’s been to Karnataka, also Rome,

The sailor dreams of Acre, at night
When his bunk is shaking, “Come, tired
Sailor, the wind is strong, in my shops
The bread has been baked and the pots have been fired.”