Odysseus sailed
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.
~William Hammett
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