Corsair

With my hips cocked and slanted,
my belt tilted       (a black restaurant tray
                             in the hands of a waitress
                             shocked as her ex enters the joint,
                             better looking than she remembers,
                             with a bimbo neath a good haircut,
                             the hamburgers, fries and Cokes
                             sliding off to the plaid carpet below),
I look around for the camera lit red
in this world, and I recall once more
the crystal ball we live in, and see
the seer, the smile and the sneer,
all fingers splayed wide in half surprise
that I would scope the celestial,
find my soul, reveal it to light show,
and shout, “I do whatever I want!”
Then strike the moment into print
for you in distance, and your sails,
of which you’re mostly hopeful,
until the wind off this strange storm
moves you, and you realize there is no
weather without will. Sail, reader!
I will never be me, but I'll die well
if I help set the corsairs free
from our meanest, safest harbor.
Next, we'll turn corsairs to comets,
so the watcher despairs of control
to wonder whose stars these truly are.