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Stained Glass Pane
One day—
The sea will be my backyard
Every morning, standing upon the deck
Of the one called Going Numb
A “Greatest Dad” mug in one hand
My last vice burning orange in the other
I will watch the sun rise like the formidable Phoenix
Warming the blue green sea with her touch
As tender fingers of a salty breeze
Run through my silvery hair
A time worn wharf will serve as my threshold
Warped planks and crusted pilings
Proffering a story of victories against the storms of sea
Aromas of fish and diesel oil
Making promises of resilience yet seen
Seagulls as nameless neighbors
Charmingly silent until beckoned
By day old bread and salty crackers
Perched upon the strakes of the Going Numb
Black eyes praising me as they wait
To devour the next gratis morsel
A galley will greet any wingless visitors
Who happen by
Barstools for three, plus me
Wait obediently before the coffee-stained counter
A toaster and tea kettle from yesteryear
A hidden bottle of rum
Is all this old man will need
With but a few steps, travel with me astern
Over the worn colorless carpet
Past the curtain of puka shells
Hung by stranger before I knew her
A sturdy cot with too many pillows
Serves as my nighttime rest
Where the sea’s gentle waves
Lull away loneliness
And Adele whispers love songs to my soul
Between the galley and my humble nest
A room where I attempt to do my best
A small writing table with pad and pencil
A beige shaded lamp provides the rest
Nostalgic bookshelves of cinder blocks and planks
Against the portside wall
A stage for those who have inspired—
Hemingway, Atwood, Tolkien, and Plath
King James and Lewis as bookends
Hold it all together
Three windows each, port and starboard
To look out
Or in
One with an untold story
I will never know
Or tell
A stained-glass pane
Cracked and old
Beauty in a way
That will never be told
By prose or poem or
By me
One day—
A new chapter in my life will come
Closing the pages of before
My purpose complete
Children grown
Now with ones to call their own
Having moved from a time of needing
To the days of occasionally calling
The old man on the sea
One day—
I will stand alone
On the deck
Of my new home
With seagulls as chaperones
And briny air in my lungs
I will watch the sunset
Through stained-glass pain
Copyright ©
Jim Hirtle
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