Jon Bishop

Vanities

I couldn’t sleep and thought about a walk.

Instead, I sat out on the stateroom deck

And saw the midnight party fizzle out.

The drunks, hair matted, soaked with puke and sweat,

Have stumbled down the halls to their staterooms,

Rasping into nauseated slumber.

And then the others, not so drunk, had let

Their conversations slowly die, so they

Could have some energy when they woke up.

The families with their kids have gone to bed.

They skipped the party, went for some ice cream,

And now—outside of white-head gamblers

And the crew now sweeping up the darkened

Ship—this floating city has gone quiet.

Above, there are the silent, blinking stars,

Joined by the crooked soft-white moonlight that

Juts across the dark and endless sea, like

An undone A-frame silhouetted by

A black abyss, sepulchral, a ghost.

The somber movement of the ship provides,

For me, a vision of the end of time—

The steady motor chugging toward its port,

The here-comes-everybody of the ship,

And how, shortly, we’ll all be in the light.

Jon Bishop’s work has appeared in a wide variety of outlets, both in print and online. He lives in New Hampshire.