At Sea

At night Walter shudders without light
Puts his grip on life in glass with his teeth
And hopes his eyes don’t roll under the bed
Laughing in the lonely dust, hiding in his shoes.
Walter shivers and pockets his dreams,
Thinks maybe the whalers will come pick me up
Folds margarine into bread for tomorrow’s
Garden lunch in the grass, sings deafly O
white waves and brown girls alive alive o
Marks the day off one more thank god until
Sunday when Mr. Connor with his boat
Comes up the porch to make me alive again
And on the ocean my legs are thickmuscled
Without blue popping veins and
The rough hair is golden and the sun is mine
Walter dips his bread in grease for dinner
white and brittle like an eggshell now
but i slept on oily wood, morning steamy
with the carcasses of monsters o i lived
Walter huddles under his sheet and rocks
Seeing the greentops of mountains at the foot
Of the bed, off starboard; and forgetting the dark
He squints a tan and a smile
And watches the sun without blinking . . .
here we go boyos the islands of steamy green

Brian Doyle