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ROBERT M. CHUTE<br />
Sailor’s Lament<br />
Why does it always end this way<br />
with the devil to pay and<br />
no pitch hot? Never quite finished<br />
when the lights go dim. One<br />
more line—when your head nods<br />
and you drop your pen.<br />
Here we are, careened on the mud<br />
in Quoddy Bay. A twenty foot tide<br />
and the tide’s at flood<br />
at Quoddy Head while we’ve<br />
still got the devil to pay<br />
and no pitch hot. Must it<br />
always end this way?<br />
All hands working the pumps<br />
all day just to keep our hulk afloat,<br />
giving the whole damned ocean<br />
a ride, through our bilge,<br />
back over the side, with<br />
everyone thinking: Is this really<br />
better than sinking? It ends<br />
this way. Careened in the mud<br />
in some strange bay, the devil<br />
to pay and no pitch hot.<br />
26 <strong>Beloit</strong> <strong>Poetry</strong> <strong>Journal</strong> Fall 2002
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