He stands in the uniform with childhood shipmates.
His anchors marching back and forth on the deck.
His eyes deep blue
like the oceans surrounding him.
His sub rosa grin yearns for me to see him.
He speaks in an anomalous style
like a sinning preacher.
Beer-stained blood
covers his slow beating body,
warm veins of hollow branches
buried under bronzed skin.
His past is his friend he invites for a drink,
he trusts the bottom feeders.
He gives away bouquets of crimson roses,
he does not accept any questions.
A mother’s son can do harm
his gifts wrapped in sea salt.
He turns to ash by exonerating all the broken shells.
Babs Work In Progress 