“Transform,” said the old man in the boat
forever unsatisfied, he voyaged a venture
without end, staring blankness at itself, pondering
mysteries infinitely varied, reaching solutions
invisibly weightless, he studied all his life to learn
idioms are disguises, nothing more, like words
unearth odium daily, feelings blinding reason
preserve themselves in amber, “transform.”
His hair was reedy charcoal, his eyes were dreary
sunsets cloudless, he wondered aloud to himself
what he would become, bear flamingo and aardvark
were all possibilities, answers to the question
unknown material cipher, the solution at hand
hammer pulling and raised, “On the count of three”
he said to his dead relatives, “One” then “two”
before stopping to stare, at nothing plainly.
He sighed and sat back, erect by his elbows
planted in wooden boat bottom, the barrel snug
under his jaw, “three” was the call through tears
bloody thick mist, click arise from a catch
without gunpowder, struggle the fist sharp
through his thigh, cool it from there say “tomorrow”
grabbing the oars, spit over the side, pause
knowing there’s nothing, no promises kept.