Old Moby
It’s like I am in a life raft,
the lone survivor of a really bad sea poem.
“Ship ahoy,” exclaims a parrot in my head.
Reluctantly I start rowing toward a new salty tale.
What else can I do?
I’m out here surrounded by talking fish.
Perhaps one day
I will learn to translate a few bubbles,
make a few waves
before old Moby gets me.
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