In a Storm

Ilse, tonight, trapped in blankets I dose my bronchial cough with John’s expensive port while the waves bite at the boulders where the fraught crabs flee. Any port in a storm. And those words, my bad joke, return tonight to pose unwanted questions. Who has not been caught and held, a lone prisoner in the short- ening hours till dawn? And now your clothes no longer lie like body counts from wars we fought across this down, where’s my refuge?

“I should have been a pair of ragged claws.” I’ll get crabby my own way, drunk; deluge my throat with whisky, not sweet wine. Of course you care. Of course I know you may refuse. © 2003-13 Stephen Taylor
Permission to use quotes was neither sought nor obtained.

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