The Captain’s Successor

The Captain’s Successor

Below the decks, the men
are filing their bayonets into
points, thirsty to pick off the
wealthy and wistful.

Each a loose cannon,
their undying passion for red
in the water, and fire, and women.

At night I have to lock myself
up in my cabin with the oil.
They all try guilt-thanking me
into inch so they take a mile.

The nicer ones comb their hair,
call me pretty. The smarter
ones hem and haw such sweet
discussions, and brush my hair
back from inconvenient knowledge.
Some will peel potatoes, clean up
the table, then knock gently, offering
a turnip they sliced into a flower.
Others know they can’t seduce.
They weasel and watch. They won’t
beg. They just wait for a wrong move.

When I feel the pinch of mutiny,
I serve them all extra rations,
make myself smile a spark.
I know I should take the swim instead
but having them satisfied and on my side,
is better than not having them at all.