Thompson's Water Seal

In the rough edges of the wood,
its grains and its knots,
underneath the tides of sandpaper,
washed up old weather stains--
like tigers’ eyes and sharks’ fins.

Splinter by splinter, I shaved 
away the old coat--
the adolescent grime
and mildewed spring,
preparing for a summer’s voyage
underneath the golden glare
of a bright, maddening
medallion, consumed by the 
haze of grill smoke and pollen.
While in the yard, some child--
perhaps they called him
Ishmael—pointed 
to a swell of white cloud
swimming in the blue
and pronounced it a whale.

My foot wedged itself in a 
bucket of plastic,
knocked against the hard
wooden surface riding
nothing but grass blades
and dirt, sounding like bone
limping on a gangplank,

and as I fell
I called out a name--
perhaps
it was Ishmael--
but he was wearing
the wind like a sieve,
as far from me

as a crow’s nest

or the burning of the sea.