I’m there; it’s a Sunday morning,
chopping a Walla Walla onion,
cracking a few organic eggs,
frying up fake bacon and spare spuds;
kettle’s a-boiling, cats squirreling around my feet,
some small quibble
about the quantity of kibble;
It’s all in place,
the day is taking shape
and then I am looking out to the sea,
catching sight of some long gooish swatch of flotsam,
some pokey yellowish green concoction,
strung up and down the sound,
like some giant sea-floating, ocean-going colostomy
oozing with an outrageous ocean-mucous.
Beyond this unappetizing coagulation
and below rainclouds hanging above,
a full-masted vessel going south,
her sails in the faint breeze,
ruffling the air this cool late July morning.
I return to the electric stove;
swirl the onions, add the eggs,
and spin them about on a low electric heat.
The ship passes behind some trees,
and I recall no love of sailing,
no dreams of the seven seas,
no Errol Flynn pirate fantasies,
nothing that would account
for the pull I feel this morning
to set sail.
This poem was published in WordWorks, the Commemorative Spring 2014 issue of the Literary Magazine of the Federation of British Columbia Writers