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Gale
by James Papa

I listen to the gale blowing
outside the window in the dark.
Glad I’m not at sea
where somewhere a fisherman
is praying for the wind
to stop, praying the next
wave won’t sink the boat
or wash him overboard.
I can hear him now
swearing at the boat
every time she rolls too far
or shudders her way
through a bad wave.
By now he’s willing
to trade every last fish
in the hold to make land.
Every dollar he’s ever made
to be done with this business.
But it’s no use.
God doesn’t cut deals
this far out.
So he goes on swearing.
He curses the men
who built the boat
and the wind that threatens
to tear it apart. He curses
his own foolishness.
He could have worked
in a factory. Or sold
automobiles. He curses
God again, that bastard.
And after that his wife
who after all is most
to blame. For this
and everything else.
But he doesn’t curse
the sea, luminous
now as it towers
over him in the dark.
New as it ever was.

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