The Cannon’s Mouth

This morning, my local opium smuggler
ported his clipper on my landlord’s porch.

He thrice rang my doorbell, as is his god-
rotting seamen custom, to deliver my post.

I accepted my mail, & handed the trader my
grandson, for it was time that the boy learned

the ways of the sea before he got the wrong
idea about it in that sissy schoolyard of his.

Looking down at my envelops, I saw a
hand-folded magazine; apparently I had

once more, been published without my
knowledge; I didn’t mind it much though.

It was as if I had just come back from the
bathroom to find my food waiting for me.

The magazine landed on the porch with a
decisive plop, & oozed like a rare steak.

The opium smuggler started looking at me
quite angrily; I knew he’d discover that

my grandson was actually an elderly duck,
but I was hoping it take at least a week.

The trader challenged me to a face saving
sock hop; I turned & fled like the dickens.


*Read my most recently published poem in The Cannon's Mouth. Buy a copy, here.