Here lies the Count of Monte Cristo
Who got to settle a few scores
With stevedores and commodores
Before stretching out below
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 20, 2020 for contest POE-ETIC VERSE POETRY sponsored by CHARLES MESSINA - RANKED 2ND
On the edge of barren, corroded shore
Where sailors ply their trade no more
No tenured harbor gallant fleets to moor,
or docks to greet restless crew, strident commodore
No expansive peers into the mighty ocean waves bore,
or rustic wharves to accompany the dank decor
Gone are the tradesmen whose skilled hands weathered ships did restore,
and the tawny, burly arms of the itinerant, shuffling stevedore
No inquisitive merchants the cargo's value to score
Yet the drifting currents grainy sketches still store
In the eerie winds the rasping breaths of stevedores soar
Through stormy gales, commands of disembarking captain's roar
Timeless silhouettes of wafting masts hover o'er ocean floor
Apparitions of ruddy sailors from briny mists pour
Out of the steamy fog, pirate ghosts still yell encore
From foaming waves, drunken sailors one more drought implore
they sat in a booth
near the door
spoke of ships and docks and stevedores
bays and decks and rails
and how to secure things
as not to fall
and though they spoke
of everyday life
it sounded glamourous
not full of strife
eating sausage, eggs and drinking tea
one looked quite the saltly dog to me
red shirt, black vest, gray beard and all
went on discussing tomorrow's chore
as I paid the check and heard no more
and returned to my life as I slid through the door
but my thoughts remained
with the one from Maine
and the salty ace
whose charming accent I never did place
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