Resignation

First hearing the news
of the captain's reassignment,
I felt brushed by the ever-nearby
ghoul of the future,
before I could even stop working
to consider the implications
of such a transfer in angry seas.

Vines of seaweed
have made their way up the hull.
I cross the deck, pretending
that the wood struck with sunlight
is magma, and skip across shadows.
The captain is loud and livid,
an angry sheep out to get the wool
back, having been shorn enough.
The captain expects
another star in the sky each night
he lays his head to rest on deck.

Without falling out of line,
I've looked farther ahead than I'd like.
There the waves of faces grew taller
than the mast's shadow,
and the captain was captive and quiet,
and I crossed the deck feeling
a splintering warmth in my feet,
shrugging as the water rises.