Grimbeau

-Anchor the Spectacle, Mister Hands!

We’re going ashore.

It was too soon.

Hands blushes coyly

Shakin chestnut manacles

Eyes understood fully

Hands encounters disdainful

inscrutable latitudes

Eyes ignoring the growing swarm,

a manic fauve flotilla spewing

onlookers doing selfies.

You just crossed the pacific

in an enamel bathtub.

The age of true sailing is

undead

You are feeling tired

after that,

about an hour

or so was it?

Lost all sense of time

Only for a while

mind you

Only for a while…

~

Some snow,

an afterthought,

soon passes:

a dusting,

a sprinkling

barely even that.

You think one up this time

if your fancy takes you