Invincible summer |||

In a storm

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.