Perry and Empire
‘Twas but a mist-enshrouded speckle
dark-painted on looming horizon.
Petty worker holds unwavering watch,
silently, stealthily keeps his eyes on.
Forward motion undeniable,
each passing minute size increasing.
Small heart stands alert and viable –
beating fast and tremulous; though, never ever ceasing.
Moments reveal stark, unyielding visage
so confident, assured, and smug;
so grand in glory, so traveled, so worldly,
laced in comment and compliment, so unlike our humble tug.
Steely vessel stays its resolute course –
deliverance of goods and fare its compensated victory.
Tugboat sighs in the witness of the linear bulk -
so heavily adorned in commercial livery.
Gull passes low. Crying for what
no mind can know, much less announce.
A distraction that reminds
no one here is tied by moorings, is secured by mounts.
A tentative thrust is sputtered
into the immensity of the saltwater bay.
A test, an assurance of propulsion,
some gesture, a semblance in making the smallest of headway.
For surely it is his job
to steer this myopic, shore-bound lug –
a princely assignment for one
so parochial as a six-legged bug.
The behemoth is nigh,
motion slowing, heading stupid;
grand in size, demeanor, and experience -
with steering as impotent as an arrow-less cupid.
Stoic eyes peer down to
the struggling, focused underling:
“My name is Empire, it is written on my side.
Surely, yours is not an important thing.”
“You may be mighty and experienced
and even handsome in a funny, indefinable way
but I was created to assist,
and assist I will until my final rust-racked day.
For my name is Perry –
punctuality is built into my frame.
I cannot be influenced by anything more that
you may have to say; it is not my game.”
Inching forward, making contact
head to belly, crown to rigid, cold-steel siding;
diesel pistons thrumming, water humming
churning to froth, molecules rapidly colliding.
The brutal, hundred-ton course
once so strong, unyielding, and forthright
now bends to the fruit of the effort,
to the will of an underdog’s might.
Another passing gull cries:
“If one were to measure worth,
would one count this of the grunty little grit
or the aloofness of the steely-blue girth.”
Matters not thinks Perry,
though he mentions it not out loud:
“Of which is more important –
The vastness of the ocean or the fragility of a cloud?”
For both are compulsory
in the sustenance of all living things.
To order one the more grand,
‘twould be the silliest of schemings.
Copyright © Clifford T. | Year Posted 2019
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