The clinic’s front desk is
a seawall
pounded in
fifteen minute intervals
by we broken vessels.
The bay is full
the tide in flow.
Around me
one bails water
one threads a lifering
over needle-thin shoulders.
All want to dock
trade
lurching decks
for solid footing.
The bailing woman’s bucket
is a thimble
she is about to be swamped
and does not know how to swim.
My little boat rocks
and anyway
only has room for one.
Ashore,
you
query tide charts
wind speeds
food stores.
I
tell you I have seen
an albatross,
can think of little else.
You offer me a sextant
trace latitudes
say nothing about
white wings
against grey skies.
A wave crests
breaks
becomes the next wave
and the next.
My sea is never still.
