Rough Seas Tonight

“I’m not a hero, I am but a vessel of God.” Ensign Johns prays softly over the remains of what was once the pilot, now looking like a busted pocket-watch with its springs scattered. Steeled, he ladles blood over the side of the raft with his cap, and waits, harpoon in hand, for the shark.

In the harbor bar, Frank swallows hard on his rye, then continues scribbling on a napkin. Minnows swirl in his belly as the barmaid wipes the ash before him. But she cannot decipher the cursive brambles confessing undying love for her.

After, Iris slathers lipstick in a dingy mirror. He waits outside, either gassing up or fumbling with the radio. He’s a lug. But a lug that’ll drive her uptown. She drops the makeup next to the box-cutter in her clutch.  Sometimes lugs get ideas. Lugs don’t treat her good, like her lost sailor had.