Cruise

by Terence Winch

I am going to a party on a submarine
where I will dance with a rude chemist.
They will be serving yams in my chamber
and cereal with no raisins whatsoever.
No Australians will be allowed to enter.

The carcasses are on the march again.
Saxophone solos are in the air.
There is a lion at the door with an injured
paw. The signs of love make me cringe.
I wish they hadn’t let me out on parole.

My wife is in the woods reading Molière
and eating croissants. She would not come
on the cruise, claiming without proof that
such voyages are never transcendent enough.
I continue eating éclairs and sticky buns.

This poem is not about love or pain. There
is no message. Except that there will be no
surprises on the patio tonight. Solitude is
trending. History makes me feel faint.
I would sacrifice my pension for your fruit bowl.