To my Former Self

You look satisfied
to slouch against that dusty cutlass.
In your long sleeves
that drape over your hand and shroud the hilt,
you have the smell of sea-salt.
I see the smirk on your lips,
the ease of your lanky form,
and the thumb of your free hand
that digs under your belt, asking,

"What is it, old man? What
lectures do you have for me?
I have mastered the tireless sea,
and know its winds and
guide the helm where I will."

Hear me out! I too
knew the glory of a brisk wind
and a billowing sail,
yes, I! who am hobbled by my years
and inhabit the loose skin of an elder,
once skirted the new coasts.
When my luck was through,
I would have gone down
to the unknowable depths,
but I could only cling to the shattered mast.
Strange men found me,
when at last the sea gave me up,
and tended to my ruined body,
and for years
(I cannot tell you how many)
I wandered among the men and ghosts
of a wild land.

Now there is none of the thrill of discovery.
Day after day I watch the galleons dock,
laden with heavy boxes,
and you men seem intent on hauling off those boxes,
loading up new ones,
and call it a day's work.

I envy you, untested whelp;
long for your sprightly step
and moppish hair,
but you live in a perfumed dream.
Set down roots on the land
and remember your childhood home
if you wish to avoid my unpleasant fate.