22 March 2020

By Philip Kuepper

They sail their boat
like bucking broncos.
They “Yee hah!” at the wheels,
those who race what the elements
throw at them, round the world,
hurricane force, or dead calm.

A rogue waves sits at the backs of their minds,
a terrorist ever ready
to strike from out of nowhere.
At times, boredom is their first mate.
(One learns to play chess with boredom.)

When all electronic
communication dies,
there are the stars.
Theirs are the stars,
each one bright with its finding window.
(One can lose oneself in such a window,
and, therein, win the race.)

There are sharks, that flirt with them.
There are dolphins.
And the Fata Morgana, off starboard,
will cause them desire board it,
for a night of revelry
that will end up lasting eternity.

But the albatross will,
if they let him,
steer them home.

(10-11 March 2020)