Quick whittle me a birch sea captain, Ingrid,
before you dash off to play pinochle with Paul,
something smallish for our mantelpiece,
something I can paint maroon
with my glossy enamels and big, broad brush.
Your birch sea captain with his spyglass extended
will stand perpetual watch
over the gulf in front of our fireplace,
and his eyesight has to be sharp enough
to never be fooled by costumed invaders,
cutthroats like Paul in their looney-tunes get-ups,
desperately trying to lose their identity
in a following sea of ridiculous optics,
but preparing nonetheless to storm
this brick and stone coast we call hearth.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, In Between Hangovers, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, and The California Quarterly.