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WINE
It was....twelve?
Fourteen years ago?
The past is microfiched, stretched into
Quick, rolling sheets.
First day of a new year.
Circuit knocked out power in the boiler room.
Lowest level of the ship.
Elevator to breaker, just two hundred feet.
Pitch with limpid decay.
Flashlight, a useless prop. Crawling on my knees,
And as I felt for the railing, heard the vessel gently moan as she rose and fell,
I was stabbed.
With no noise, I screamed.
And, though this was a tomb of rust
and make-believe, though I had led thousands of strangers
to this altar of fear
and cackled inwardly as they cried,
For that moment, I was horribly, tenderly alone. Only I could flip the switch,
A thimble of blood lapped out of my thumb,
cast a shadow on the predator,
Wine. Two glasses. Party guests from the night prior
Went exploring without a map. As the old year sought its requiem,
these two strangers spent the evening
between the sprawling husks of rusted, slightly leaking plates.
And now, no more.
Hand throbbing, I pressed
towards the bow. Foot by precarious foot,
Testing the darkness. I had counted these steps,
once,
fifty-four. Sighted, I'd been known to race them
and terrify a crowd in under six seconds.
Not here. An hour lapsed
until I finally stood up
opened the box
flipped the switch
and roused the beast awake.
I smiled, sadly. My hands reeked of dried
merlot and iron. Another year
with the same old ghosts.
