Ilse, tonight, trapped in blankets I dose my bronchial cough with John’s expensive port while the waves bite at the boulders where the fraught crabs flee. Any port in a storm. And those words, my bad joke, return tonight to pose unwanted questions. Who has not been caught and held, a lone prisoner in the short- ening hours till dawn? And now your clothes no longer lie like body counts from wars we fought across this down, where’s my refuge? “I should have been a pair of ragged claws.” I’ll get crabby my own way, drunk; deluge my throat with whisky, not sweet wine. Of course you care. Of course I know you may refuse.