Ferry Man

 Ferryman

Brace your keening gaze between my lips.
See I've spit my silver, see I've spit my gold
and hang your shoulders lower, Nyx's foolish son
who chose a calling where no wage would pass your sight.

In your morning rise and take your ferry pole,
unlock the boathouse while your coffee cools;
your bark is smooth and baby blue; you wade
and guide her in that black and raging river.

No other sailor sends his boat so swift
as Charon poling on the river Styx;
he planes her prow across and guides her in
to where the hordes who died in sleep await.

Old ropes hold the ferry fast and on the dock
the register is set to whirring to recieve
the vaunted fee for souls, a single coin,
and ever Charon holds to foolish hope.

The elderly, the sick, the poison fed
all shuffle sheepish past his iron eyes,
they turn their pockets out and loose their pocket books,
but fail to find the price the ferryman requires.

Paper money, plastic cards, reciepts;
a man in silk pyjamas tries to pay by writ
and Charon shakes his head and motions him away
he sighs and asks "does no one pay with coins these days?"

The line advances through the hours apace;
the ferry sitting empty, waiting for a fare;
the ferryman is lowering his cutting sight,
but I approach (post future death) and call.

Hey ferryman, why play this foolish game,
why come each day to entertain this hope in vain,
why waste the time you could be spending on the water?
You know that all men pass a pauper to the grave.