17.
Lightship, daughter of the same
fishy father I’m from, tailoring
a suit of beam to fit the world, can’t
see the sweet gum tree was there,
the headless bird-keeper who waves
down the laughing gull from a storm
sky. I’m mayor of my icebox and
the copper-topped mast that in
silhouette resembles a giraffe. I
prop my blue milk-glass on toady
modern turtles, while crocodiles air
their tongues by the railway in the back
of a livery cab, awaiting the millinery
and potholders I ordered by portable.
The shrinkwrapped platform tennis
court I got last year fits crosswise
on the lightship deck. Still, as I’m stuck
here under contract, I repine for a stool can
swivel with the swiveling beam I’m
paid to maintain but will not outlast.
