Having lost the charts of the rugged coast

this bold lack of navigation

now has us fully lost.

What returns at this late hour

is a song we sang in our youth

on the bow of the Amorita.

It’s a sailors lament

about running out of whiskey.

“And I scarcely think that I’ll get a drink till I get to Buffalo”

Between then and now

who can really say what happened.

A life is so big.

She’s ok where she is

tucked into a hospital bed

foggy with not knowing.

She’d like to lay low

and just let the hull rust.

But we, her family,

screech like gulls

shouting Up, Get Up

We want another day.