he doesn’t read them
he’s in them smells them
hears and feels them
lives them
the way he chokes up
with the sailor’s goodbye kiss
shudders as a tempest
rocks and bashes the boat
nearly loses it as it sinks
taking good family men
into the sea’s abyss
I’ve seen him wipe a nearly
formed tear when he mentions
the widows and children left behind
destined to look out a window
every day for the rest of their lives
and search the watery graveyard
for something impossible
for that face in the surf
smiling waving
swimming to shore
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