Rest for the Weary

No cream for the coffee 
says the fish-blood captain, nine days in
after a morning of mopping gurry
from the engine room on my knees,
after a morning plie'ing from his mousetrap anger
(don't touch the peanut butter) the net caught gently
in the prop, the sun caught gently on our backs through winded clouds,
the smell of a boat's burnt husk a mile from our leeward hull
dinner is in the stove (the captain finds the radio station,
even in god-knows-where alaskan waters)

the anchor slips, it is just noticably dark,
the anchor slips again, the captain,
listening to the weeks baseball scores
(he is thrilled to have found this station)
looks up as the anchor slips once more,
standing at the helm, gives an imperative look
and reaches for his raincoat. he says again,
no cream for the coffee

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