Thanksgiving

EvilToasterElf

Life feels like a view from a crow’s nest
with nothing but water and sky in every
direction, a purgatory of not white,
or black,
but blue.

Rocking back and forth while someone
navigates by compass and astrolabe, our
bread is stale, and our imaginations fill
with beaches and fresh meat.

We are so seldom met with exotic, sex-
starved women, bronzed and bored, but
with another painfully colorful sunrise,
somehow spiting us with its predictable
beauty

The ships crew begins to fall into their
own niche, grafting themselves to social
and practical roles, responsible navigators,
and comic cooks, playing cards with anxious
cabin boys while the desperate riggers stare
down from their ropes at the young boys legs,
these voyages were always poor character builders

But tedium often fans the fading embers of hope
that we will land on some island where we can
claim the throne we sit on in our thoughts,
building empires in our own image

At night I see my utopia spelled out in the
constellations, which months have allowed
me to know by heart. but even though our ship
split when we landed, we’ll all have our chance
in the acres around this, our Plymouth rock.