Ships groan. Moan. Even shimmering
yachts know, deep in their blueprints,
they shouldn't be at sea. Commerce
and war disagree. The sea is ours!
they cry--like drunken sailors
on shore leave or rabid dictators
with shrinking brains. Ships
at permanent anchor--mothballed:
uncommanded, they slightly sway,
serene in their bay. At night,
ghosts howl in bones of the hulls,
conjuring nightmares of reefs,
hurricanes, missiles, and mad captains.
hans ostrom 2022
