Ode to the Oily Bilge of a Charter Boat

I grew up on a ladder, resurrecting the vacations of man;

summers filled with dark holes in ocean hulls—

fish, fuel, and oily stain scrubbed free with a steady hand.

It takes a tangle of hose and wire to travel leagues,

drop lines fathoms deep against lee tide, 

haul a hundred wet monsters into sunny graves.

In those holes I carried out elbows and impellers,

spark plugs and piston covers, every bolt and manifold,

perfect wrench and clamp of steel.

On hot days I’d tie my coveralls around my waist.

On cold days, I’d tuck a hooded sweatshirt

between my sleeves and shiver into a styrofoam cup.

It was the small act of rescuing a charter captain

in his time of need. Firmly hitch broken horses

back under propeller power.

In the fading noise, they’d pilot their ship away,

filled with trophy dreamers. I’d rag the grease

from my fingernails and share a car ride home.

* * * * * * * * * *

Stop Lights

From the road, you can see them

combined in a form of prayer,

a cathedral among the reeds

where forgottens gather.

A man kneels

while a woman calmly,

and with no smile,

removes his buttoned shirt.

She pulls his hands

above his head like she is placing him

on a human cross. 

When we pray, we build a pyramid

of flesh,

arms stretched in racked protest,

mouths flexing open

as is if ready to sing.

I watch them from my car,

these sacrifices,

seen from an open window

in rush hour traffic;

the touch of men & women,

in the wooded altar

of secret gods.

They are the tide that did not rise

with other boats,

content to celebrate

under eyes I cannot close

for a long, long time.