TEN YEARS

A decade is a period of time.

A long time as a deck aid, providing assistance on a ship.

After this time, you feel life had given you the slip—

You feel you have decayed.

Atleast you’ve kept afloat working in this way,

Satisfactorily keeping penury at bay.

But there’s no deck aid parade in addition to your pay.

You drink any port in a storm to keep warm,

Squinting at how the land lay.

At sea or in dock, you watch the clock,

Gazing into the distance for prospects looming on the horizon,

Wondering about your sweetheart back home and who she’s got her eyes on.

At times, with the relentless grind,

You find scenes from Mutiny on the Bounty playing on your mind.

On land, crew cuts are haircuts.

At sea, they are less kind.

Shaking off bits of cut-up crewmembers from your shoe,

You realise no one is more cut off than you.

A deck aid’s neck’s laid out on deck,

It tans to leather in the sun from its fleshy cardboard.

When you’re not seasick, you’re homesick,

Foam is quick to flow from the mouth if you drink too much saltwater,

Apparently, it drives you mad!

Overall, your life’s not bad; just boring, repetitive, tedious and sad.

You’re better off than most, you tell yourself…

With the conviction of a ghost…