In the Galley

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IN THE GALLEY


Some of us nestle quite nicely into 

crabbiness. Hell, somebody needs to 

tell the deck that actually no, 


not everyone is just doing their best, 

and yes, chin up buttercup

and all that jazz, but too much


green grass and things start to smell,

well, fishy. Every vessel needs a cook 

to shoot it straight, to tell us that since


we’re all gasping for breath by fifty, 

will never surface from our bills, 

and if the air doesn’t kill us 


the Big Man's flat paddle will, 

we might as well come below deck

for a Tuesday beer. Cheers. 


No really, Cheers. Down here, despair

is stale fare. When you’ve drained

the cup and found that no one slips  


the hook, you’re finally free to stop 

flopping around as you look for another

dry morsel, feasting instead 


in the company of those who don’t

ask you to choose between being

completely and utterly screwed,


and all of it—if not tonight—maybe

yet coming out right. Take and eat.

Some dishes are best slopped on a single plate.


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