i could smell it on him.
the salt of sweat, the frustration
of homeless seamen.
no ports open for adventure
river ways run dry,
the girls legs are closed.
so they get wasted
in bars,
on sheets,
joining their comrades
in seafaring heaven.
they rush from their birthing places
sights set on far shores
most don't make it,
that's the thing with seamen,
always coming, so rarely arriving;
a debt of calamities along the way.
tales of their travel
reach my nostrils,
i push open the door revealing:
a hidden frame,
a bush of hair,
all those sheets in the wind,
and on his bed,
leaving much space
for imagination's play,
all the reasons why
his sea dawg eyes
seem especially weighted down
by gravity today.
he's coming, he tells me,
in just a minute....
returning to smells of eggs and mushrooms
i leave wishes shaped like fishes
to swim in memory's sea

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