by John Davis
The chief is filling his coffee cup,
joking, telling the one about the nun
drunk in the confessional booth. This week
she’s swallowing vodka. Last week, Scotch.
Peterson, a seaman, is polite enough
to laugh, hoping he won’t get
the graveyard watch.
Beyond the cove the sea holds
our stories, whitecaps as high as the horizon.
A 45-footer hauls in the survivors
of a purse seiner. 5-foot, 10-foot,
20-foot waves. He gives his head
a wet dog shake. Even when we are dry
we are in the water.