The Old Sea Captain
He has no ship,
sits on the pier
like a landlocked buoy
watching the world
through frosted sea glass eyes.
Head as smooth as the Ailsa Craig
his magnificent beard unfurls
like a parchment.
His story is written in invisible ink
for anyone to see.
Time has printed a map of the world,
the places he has seen
on the back of each hand
mottled and veined,
taut and strained
as the ropes of a new rigged ship,
each fixed to the turning drum
of a music box unwinding
with every beat of the sailor’s dance
that twangs and booms
inside an old tea chest.
Passers-by stop to toss a coin
into the well of his upturned cap.
And make a wish