Salvation

Scrawny bookworm, fact-filled urchin,

I wandered over to sit a spell 

with my neighbor.  He too

an avid reader, explained books 

as I pulled them from his shelves.

We never shared the story–we knew 

my father drank too much, my mother

martyred herself to inaction.

Enamored with the Titanic, 

countless times he described the hubris 

of the company and crew,

and the distress that ensued—

alarms blaring, passengers panicking;

knowledge that there weren’t enough 

lifeboats to save everyone; the chaos

of families separated, the slow

sinking of the ship.  Yet amid screams and 

cries, orders and horror, some

remained calm–the band

played endlessly.

He would tell me 

he was a passenger 

standing at the railing, looking down 

as I sat in a life boat–

watching 

to see what I would do

with what I had inherited.

The glacier behind the sinking

of the Titanic is melting quickly,

adding a centimeter of water to the sea

each century. He’s still at the railing 

looking down to turbulent waters.

I am still rowing.