Smoothbore Fouling

 

There’s more to life
than just the sea pounding
thoughts into my sunlicked head.
Spending too much time instead
staring at mirrors, an unknown
version of me. Woolen coat,
paper skin. Far off trees and
gone forests. Rain, grease, the
ship’s dank stage. I’d kill for a wedge
of moldy brown bread. Pack my
muzzle, buck and ball, and fire.
Thoughts of home inspire rage.
Rats, a door, a bed, my cage.

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