During the winter cruising season in the Caribbean, I like to sit on my pool deck at day’s end to watch the procession of white-hulled, city-sized, luxury ships make their way past my island home of Vieques. And imagine. 



She’s slipping by just now, white bride,

incandescent almost, against the horizon’s high line.

Too early to call it evening.

Too late for afternoon.

Too close by our island, by my reckoning,

just so starboard passengers get a look.

Heading must be due west, or close to it.

Helmsman in Bono wraparounds, perhaps,

against the slipping sun.

First seating soon.

White-linened women talced down there, many,

for eventualities. Full ahead.



Day’s passed by the time

she passes by.

She proclaims the horizon

as constellations can’t.

Nothing before

but neon blip of radar.

She strides the earth’s curve


Simply she, he, her, me, you, I.

I. I. I.

Only we know,

who watch her passing by.




Jumped into Jello

or what?

Dead calm, they call it,

this eastward evening.

Trade winds catching breath in

night’s falling. 

Tangerine wake aft,

tar-blotched barge ahead.

The staff is craving tips tonight

more than powdered pusses.

Homeward bound. 

Be the first to comment

Please check your e-mail for a link to activate your account.