Aye, Blow The Man Down

I walked carefully along the pier,

Loose oaken boards, rattling against the pines,

And the fisherman with their cigarettes between lilted fingers

Hung out the window of the boat they rarely leave long enough

To see or feel the ground, the dirt of the land.

I leaned forward, of my own balance and accord–

“Could I bum a cigarette? I haven’t enough to spare in

My pockets, nor in my wallet, and my mother lays dying 

In her bed, my brother’s seen himself behind locked bars,

And my father left when I was just a babe, so, do you think

I could have a smoke, a light as well if you feel a generosity of spirit

On our Lord’s Day–this Sunday, that is?”

Said he, the one with the cap and the hair that bristled like a brillo

Below the brim, “Don’t you see the skies above your head? Rain is near,

And your winter coat has holes about each shoulder. Come in, under the 

Roof of our ship. Work for your pay, for your cigarette and for your light,

Then go carefully across the shorelines of the harbor..”

I worked the motor, learned to tie the knots into better ones

That they might hold against the waves that rushed the side

Of the ship with splinters in the railing,

and chipped paint along every corner and edge.

And then, when the night grew dark, and the lanterns

At the bow and stern were lit so that we could see our footing,

They sat me down, a pat on my back–saw to it a cigarette

Was in my hand, a light in the other.

“Do you know any songs, any shanties before we head back

Towards the port, with the catch of the morning?” Said he, the other

With the shattered watch wrapped plainly around his left wrist.

“Aye, just one, but the tune has escaped me, my memory.”

“The tune makes no difference, take a drag and sing.”

“Come all you young fellows who follow the sea,

And pray, pay attention and listen to me…”