unABle

The crew of seamen all have a secret  loneliness
of their own. At every port the deserted dance
halls  beckon, and there they dance with ghosts
of  their lives. At midnight sharp the ghosts disappear
along with the tuxedo'd band and the music dies to
leave  red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags
and balloons that bounce and dance to a solitary prolonged
note.  The sailors stop spinning and their arms drop to their sides.
They drown in bottles of rum in search of solace but rarely find
barely a taste.  So in frustration they fight and draw first and last
bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes, with torn clothes and damaged pride
they stagger arm in arm back to ship. The water laps and licks its
tongue like a cat at cream and the breeze whispers breath rings to
the moon. Midshipman matron mother waits on deck with his rolling
pin and he kicks backsides into cabins and bunks. The ship bobs and
dips in rhythm to sailors chests and snoring, and there they sleep,
open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams