by Richard Fein
Beyond the horizon lie other horizons.
The world’s a sphere and all your courses around it are circular.
Your compass has 360 points so your true bearing could be any bearing.
Like every sailor on this choppy sea you’re captain of your own lifeboat.
The bobbing bow parts the waters,
but those same waters swirl back together at the stern.
Island Edens with coconut palms on white beaches are mirages,
vanishing if you sail too close.
You’ve become a peg-legged Ahab shouting useless curses at ghostly whales.
You need a first mate and perhaps a second or third,
if not for company then to steer when you’re asleep,
for your vessel must always appear to be on course.
Blame the travel agent.
You wanted the honeymoon special,
but he chartered you on this singles mystery cruise to nowhere.
Demand a refund when you next meet.
He=s on the dark freighter manned by a skeleton crew.
That ship crosses every bow eventually,
sweeping all captains up from their leaky lifeboats.