.png)
By Alex Pasquale
I sit in a pew and words fall around me.
I try and stand against the storm.
The mast bends and creaks,
The sail cracks like a whip.
I am pushed back.
The captain and I butt heads
And the crew won’t listen.
Bradshaw’s in the brig,
And the man in the crows nest is singing.
I yell, “Listen to me! I’m the quartermaster!”
And he keeps belting that song.
On stage up there, on high.
After all he’s done.
The sound of 112 hymnals closing in unison,
I jolt from my hammock.
Its hanging from the ceiling,
When the boat rocks, I don’t feel a thing.
Golden crucifixes spin as they rain diagonally,
Striking the ground, embedding into the soft dirt.
The captain’s walking to shore.
I sink, I can’t swim.
A hand reaches down to my flailing, drowning arm.
I can’t reach back.
Comments