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Life on This Boat
Here in this lifeboat we hopelessly wait,
No one rows now, we are all but deadweight,
Minding our manners, and now the first mate,
Starting to smell like the raw fish we ate.
What can we do in our unguided boat?
Helping each other’s how we stay afloat.
Nothing gets better, and now we’re all sick.
Time is off track, and my watch doesn’t tick.
Taking some notes with my black graphite stick,
Ravings poured forth by this starved lunatic.
What can we do to survive on this boat?
Caught precious rain in our canvas raincoats.
We just quit using an oar for a mast.
Don’t have much hope though we claim we will last.
Day broke, our captain had silently passed.
Over the side he was clumsily cast.
What’s left to do in our misguided boat?
Name the First Mate the most likely scapegoat.
Eleven days later and there’s only me,
No water left that is not salty sea.
Neptune in time will come charge us his fee:
One more wet victim in cold misery.
Threw out my knife from this damned cursed old boat,
Not to be tempted to cut my own throat.
Searching all points that are round the compass,
Fate, ever sure, without doubt, obvious.
Time has arrived to resolve without fuss,
Torment and thirst are replaced with cold-press.
Slip overboard—let the sea be my coat.
Parting sweet ways with this hell bound life boat.
White blurs my sight, angel wings that draw near.
Bright, ever bright, as the sun they appear.
Nay, but not wings, but white sails, and I hear,
Voices, a shout, “Come about!” and a cheer,
Given for me who survived on that boat.
But there’s no comfort, no reason to gloat.
Seeking an answer from God and the sea,
__Why was it me?
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Frank Rable is a poet living in Pennsylvania.