Alone with the Murder

Like a sailor hauling men overboard

on decks, he lowers the latch

on the door of his 8 x 24

cargo container for the final

shut-in. Deserting

her to that rich valley between his prison cell

walls. Alone

with the murder, the dog surveys

the herculean climb to the bottom of his

potential.  Heave,

the sickness ailing him is more than

merely viral, it’s virtual; worse than the rhythmic pace of

time.
Sequestered

inside the solitude of international shipping,

he denies the social squawk any shot

of simplifying his situation. The only crook

his love ever knew he won’t let

escape. Wrecking

logistics, he bears the incessant need to scrape

away from under his nails gathering

rust. A sea

of tacit whispers goads him on to forgetting that stomping ground

discovered. Rocking

back and forth, not a score of oars could steady his loneliness

now. Mechanic

ghosts left on the outskirts to illicit these thoughts

from a man who, on probabilities, never

burnt the midnight oil.