On the upper deck, steel drums signal departure.
I recline in my deck chair
minimally aware of the festivities
sipping a fancy Italian coffee
contemplating the evening’s menu and show.
I’m relaxed, in a celebratory state—
a snapshot from a sales brochure.
Groups of tourists cram the upper decks.
I negotiate the steep steps to the lower decks
gripping the cold, steel rails
catching images of big guns, tiny cots, lukewarm coffee.
In a secret passage of my mind
I find myself on the Battleship Texas, 1942,
contemplate my reactions, and reach an impasse.