The White Ship (12) Poem by David McLansky

Three weeks, three months, three years,
The flyer's on the pier,
The posted schedule to awaken
In the shipping lanes of God's forsaken.

'I'm on some liner now,
I'm standing in the prow…'
The wind sweeps back her streaming hair
As she's swept along, grim, unaware.

The Purser's at her side,
Won't she come inside?
The Captain's rung the diner bell,
The ocean's dull and grey with swell.

She's cold as marble white,
Her days know seamless light,
Her eyes are mist-wet porcelain
'Is it Purgatory that I'm in? '