Friday

Life is long and short, though our days are equal.
Harbors hold my memories, gently rocking
hulls of boats as lullabies soothe an infant
after a tantrum.

Out at sea, the sails of my ship were open,
working lungs displacing the weights of water;
storms that tore my history’s tangled rigging
nearly destroyed me.

Numb, I learnt that yesterday’s lays were shanties
sung by sailors drunk on the rum of absence,
sleeping off their stupor in filthy hammocks,
dead in the morning.

Here, a man confided a recollection--
said he could remember his birth as clearly
as the hope that balanced on our horizon,
faith over reason.

Lonely; still, a woman must tend her island,
raise her young not knowing how they will treat her,
certain there exists a comforting homeland
over the waters.

Four and twenty birds in a pie for baking.
Four and twenty hours in a day for living.
How I’ve spent them. God only knows I’m tired--we’re
not even Friday.