By Bill Coolidge

Confused Seas

current, waffling, turmoiled
leads left then right
I was this uncertain at age 12
figuring out the ‘box step’

under the sway of container ship
shaded light, sails waffle
my sailboat twists and bobs
propelled by unseen throbbing diesels

‘scarred water’ until
faint wind ghosts me down the channel
I glance astern,
notice a little entrail
signature of my vessel’s movement

smooth water, white rope on dock,
empty slip awaits the tender
coupling with my vessel

life is like that,deep,
underwater turmoil, tumult,
sailors call it ‘confused seas’
I sense it in my balls, then
my gut, it’s a sinking, sweeping,
emptying, tide going out feeling
I wanted to cry out “wait!”

so I sit down, hold onto the tiller
my waiting a meditation
this emptying is also a knowing,
soon, even the confused seas
in my life will calm
and I, like my boat, will return home

What I Have to Do

like an incubator in a forgotten hospital
I walk in and look around, the
fishmonger answers my question
about delectability
I point at the brown crab, cuddled into a far
corner of the fishtank. “Mine.”

gallons of water roil, the crabs lean back
pinchers ready for soft fleshed teenage
boy’s fingers, the crab’s beady eyes spill anger for the boy it is a fearless snatch
he angles for protected back side, the
crab crouches, a standoff

the boy’s hand leaves the water, the crab relaxes but the boy’s hand strikes back, sharklike, bubbles spew from crab’s mouth as he twists, turns and sinks into the
anonymity of Albertson’s grocery
brown paper sack

takes a long time for my big pot,
half full of water to boil
finally little bubbles, beneath the surface
jingle and twitch, I empty brown sack
of its contents, the crab landing
backside down, helpless, I quickly
cover the pot but to my dismay, a
claw pushed lid away, reaching

“oh my god,” I say to myself, this
firewater isn’t hot enough, he lives
reaching for my hand? a life raft
back to the sea?
even though I am a caretaker by profession,
I still squirm, inside, I clench, frown on my face always wanting to help, but it’s too late and I’m hungry

White Duck

White duck can’t fly nor speak.
Swims with a pack of mallards
never leads.

If I am color blind
and don’t notice how much
bigger he is than them,
I become a mallard,
not minding.

The mallards don’t squabble nor fly away
leaving him in the lurch, vulnerable
to a snatch from below or attack from above.

The woman with the red hair
at the Grand Marina store
feeds white duck and his companions,
white bread and seed.

Maybe that’s why he is with
his friends all day long. Their
free meal ticket, maybe not.

Maybe they know he is at risk
and don’t go for that saying:
“Birds of a feather...”

The younger brood have grown,
they swim in open water, far away from
the dock.
White duck comes out with them.

Godfather to a new generation
carefully positioning himself mid-way,
the center of a fulcrum,
the connecting link between young and old.

I chuckle as he and his adopted family
glide by, ripples from unseen paddles,
they garble and quack
but not white duck,
thin neck upright,
a proud bird, holding all
of this new life in exquisite, wise silence.