Ferry Fugue

Ferry Fugue

Home again,
home again,
just morning till
night,
but still a delight,
parting the gray green waters,
churning up salty foam
under the bow,
passing fast
through sun breaks
and shadow,
getting a faint whiff
of the neighboring isles;
their beaches,
their forests,
their farms,
their kelp,
their driftwood.

There you stand,
spread-legged against
the wind,
with the big white deck
beneath you,
and the Sound’s spring chill
knifing through your long coat,
spreading out the tassles
on the end of your bright scarf;
wearing stylish sunglasses,
naively waiting for the sun;
tall collar up
like a spinnaker
before the breeze;
hands deep
in your warm pockets,
humming and smiling,
hearing those lovely melodies
winging to you
with the gulls,
and the soft thump-thump
of the great ship’s throbbing engine,
with the lilt of children’s
laughter,
and the high pitched
woodwind bark
of someone’s lap dog.

Then you notice
that old man
in the Greek fisherman’s hat,
sitting back on a bench,
out of the breeze,
holding tightly onto
a colorfully wrapped
cafeteria sandwich
in his strong old hands.

But for now,
your dock
is in sight,
and you must
descend to the car deck,
and ready yourself
to clank over the metal planks
on your way
to greet Charles
and the cats.

Glenn Buttkus April 2008