Old Sailors die
uneasily
in stationary beds.
They dream up storms
to rock their sleep
and waking
sit in deep
and separate silences.
Anchored
in the doorways of rooms.
Listlessly waiting.
Harboring the illnesses
that take them slowly
from within.
Longing
to be swept away
in some November
gust of wind.
Unwarned.
In company.
One roar.
One mercied swallowing.
-- Deb Cooper