|Oct/Nov 2004 • Poetry
My plimsoll line is dangerously submerged.
My ballast tanks, in need of dry-dock and, some
might say, emergency repair, see me list more
to starboard than to port.
I displace more fluid than before and there's
little doubt that where once my wake was
frigate-like, narrow bowed, fast moving,
my beam is now a tanker.
It takes me miles to change direction, I am so
lumbering. Other vessels part to let me pass, afraid
if they don't, I'll drag them under or run aground,
spilling my cargo of crude.