Isn't There A Ship

on the way to all the harbors
in your heart

where drunken pirates dance
a jig because a map they found

led straight to buried treasure
in a trunk, life imitating fiction

as it now and then will do?
And wasn't the gold a blessing

in their hands, so heavy,
it could anchor their lives

at last, whether winds turn wild
or wistful? Won’t the whores

who love them be abundant
with wet kisses when they see

the pearl and ruby necklaces
and rings? Aren’t even the wavelets

fore and aft bejeweled? Won’t the skies
rain rum, and won’t their mothers

see at last their wicked ways
and wanderings

turn wreckage into luck?