On-board Prospecting

The watched horsehead dissolves, not needing eels.
It is just his coffee grounds dried in the cup
and while rinsing out the mud-hued mug he feels
as if redemption were stress-free as waking up.

But it ís not, he remembers. Memory sucks
him from this morning to one years ago.
The cup breaks where he throws it. The cat ducks.
The brilliant day has many hours to go.

Outside two suns are shining, one reflected
from the lake that’s calm as glass. He wants to fill
his cup, but it is shattered, cat-deflected
from the sofa he had aimed for. The light chill

of last evening says goodbye, goes up in smoke
and the cat slips off a-birding and the suns
merge into one as old emotions choke
the man: a name not heard for decades stuns

him into seeking cover till he twigs
that the voice calling out must be his own.
While the houseboat lists alarmingly he digs
through the rotting deck boards that the suns have shown.

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