The Ferry

I’m jotting down these lines,

having borrowed a pen from a waitress

in this roadside restaurant. Three rusty pines

prop up the sky in the windows.

My soup gets cold, which implies

I’ll eat it cold. Soon I too

will leave a tip on the table, merge

into the beehive of travelers

and board one of the ferries,

where there’s always a line to the loo

and no one knows where the captain is.

Slightly seasick, I keep on writing

of the wind-rose and lobster traps,

seagulls, if any—and there always are.

Check the air and you’ll see them

above straw hats and caps.

The sun at noon glides like a monstrous star-

fish through clouds. Others drink iced tea,

training binoculars on a tugboat.

When I finish this letter, I’ll take a gulp

from the flask you gave me for the road

in days when I was too young to care about

those on the pier who waved goodbye.

I miss them now: cousins in linen dresses,

my mother, you, boys in light summer shirts.

Life is too long. The compass needle dances.

Everything passes by. The ferry passes

by ragged yellow shores.