Anchor cleaning: orders of the day.
Not too windy to drift.
Up after dog watch thinking on the charts.
Took a row across the harbour.
Thought about the little snob I was; how I hated them,
not for what they were,
but what they had to become…
Oedipus was a rich kid, so was Little Hans.
Give them a chance not a choice, a chance to be like you, boss?
No thanks, I couldn’t handle it.
Not this way.
…away off down to the cabin is where I drift
to and thereafter, the galley for thick, honey porridge,
with rustic ripped banana hunks and chocolate in stick and heart form.
Feeling a queer unease I patient on the thick, night green socks, intake a Handel
organ frill, damn the rococo, and headaloft thinking gothic tea cozies, shaking violently with warps,
sucking crumbs of welshcake from the hidden gulleys…
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