Stowage Poem by Chris Price

for Jonathan Besser

The sadness of bells sitting silent
shelved like a library of hearts

old salts in their retirement.
Tap one on the lip and a ship

comes ghosting out of the fog
everything passing and human

held in a resonant vessel.
The submarine cathedral

of its ribs still echoes though the ship
is long since flensed and rendered

down - this spare music
the last thing that lingers

the songs of our youth
always the last to go.