Flotsam (Poetry Monthly)

Out of the blue,

one Indian summer

you finally came.

The waving, windmilling

Captain of your destiny

we said.

Stubby legs would beat a heave-ho

hard plastic roll on stone;

signalling the way

with pink tongue tip.

Three wheeled abandon in the summer sun.

But soon the road's a heartbeat thrum.

A swell, a skid

and you're hit amidships.

Flotsam on the melting tar, 

sticky red jam hands.

Fingernails, clothes

and all the things they cut from you,

little sailor,

are bagged,

stowed. 

We saw you off.

Down.

Sinking, sinking

into the blue.