I reach out for driftwood

splintered and damp but at least buoyant

a life preserver

in place of the straight

talking jacket,

splintered, fractured driftwood

as torn as me, as breakable

in this tempest sea,

I’m breaking apart as the water pulls me under

and I can feel the suffocating nausea rise

as the sea lurches, tossing

me hope,

breaking my spirit in a matter of waves,

the waves that wash down my throat,

that I spit out bone by bone,

that I cannot, like an old ancient King,