the wine-dark seas
as the wind pushed his aging bark—
now starboard, now port, now starboard again—
past the sultry lure of siren song
which could spin the very clouds into lust.
He was young and then old, full of piss and vinegar
and then weary of even his own tales twice told
of leveling the the once-mighty parapets of Troy.
Upon returning to Ithaca, beard falling to his waist,
his second wind caught a second wind.
There would be no caring for the household gods,
and once again he set sail upon wine-dark seas.
I mow the lawn, put the groceries away,
and arrange my books from the tallest to the shortest.
I have leveled a good many years along the way
by simply waking up and spinning the hours like a wheel,
each with a hundred spokes, a hundred tasks
that rarely called me to draw a metaphorical sword
or adorn my chest with imaginary leather breastplates.
Still, there are evenings when the sky rolls purple
and the linnet’s wings beat a clear rhythm across twilight.
Then I am full of piss and vinegar again
and hear the long-forgotten call of a siren song.
I walk to the shore without turning back
so that I may, with a beard longer and gray,
sail upon unknown wine-dark seas.