He's in this room?
He's not being rocked
Side to side.
He's so pale.
He was so brown and
Often red. Strange
To not see him under
The sun, moon and stars.
A white blanket over him.
White sheets under him.
His head floats on a white pillow
Like a fish head on a cushion of
The whitest sea foam.
All of its color washed out to sea.
The wrinkles on his face and neck
And the crinkles around his eyes
Seem ironed out by this artificial light.
His mouth is closed, and
To compete with the gulls
And the waves.
They're silenced now too
Behind the thick glass.
He would've liked this view of the bay.
The gulls fade away into
The gray after a quick fly by
Of the large window to his room.
They seem to know he's not coming back.
The sea seems to have lost interest
In the shore.
A couple of inches above
His feeding tube
The mermaid on his arm is
Dead in the water. A lifeless
Blue and red blob adrift in white water.
Getting back his sea legs,
His lips clamp down on
A moist sponge lowered
To his mouth. It's just reflex,
His soul has sailed on,
The white blanket over him
Gently rises and falls. Beneath it
His heart still sails along.
Francis Santaquilani's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Sailing On by Francis Santaquilani )
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931)
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