It was as though I had been spit here,
Into the pocket of a lighthouse on some rocky socket,
Off the coast of France, dear.
Four thousand men died in the water here and five hundred more were thrashing madly as parasites might in your blood.
Now I was in a lifeboat designed for ten and ten only,
Anything that systematic would get you hated.
It’s not a deal not a test nor a love of something fated.
The selection was quick,
The crew was picked and those left in the water were kicked off our pant leg and we headed for home.
Then the dream ends when the phone rings,
You’re doing alright he said it’s out there most days and nights,
But only a fool would complain.
Anyway Susan, if you like,
Our conversation is as faint as a sound in my memory,
As those fingernails scratching on my hull.