Odd Occupation Calisthenic
The chanel, ferry-driver's passage:
hundreds of people, trips,
a to b to a to b; days
drip like wax down his back.
I don't know his name, but
I'd shine his boots. Comb his
dark moustache, mend his
green sleeves. I would take him
to dinner, a Sunday night,
and leave the Sunday-guy
at the ferry place. He could
cross the Atlantic, forget his anchor,
along with his leather gloves,
sunglasses, aspirin, dramamine,
treaded shoes and waterproofed
watch. My shoulders sink
under his eyebrows. But
he assures me we are no burden.
What would life be
without the ferry-driver?
Alarm after alarm, he wakes
near dawn: later in the day,
he will point bankside,
his weather-worn hand moving
passengers safely onward.
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