The Brief Revenge

She kneads the Ocean Salt into his hand;
fine salt, course salt, vodka, water, lime.
His jeans - oil-stained, beer-stained and blood-stained -
he's worn for weeks. His cactus beard the same.
The wind's a wound tonight. Their pickled harbour's
stuffed with creepy crawlies and his breath
is woodrot. Outside, sirens flash like sabres.
Each other's all they've got for home and hearth.
But they're not on the account, and this Port Royal
is the closest that they come to the Sweet Trade.
This state of things does not serve to embroil
them in adventure, but to barricade
them in, landlocked. Their skins will never harden.
Another day, another governor's pardon.