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The Pirate Guy's Poem

Steve Frederick

The stainless steel Espresso machine, fresh from its box, gargles and hisses; oak blades of a ceiling fan waft the aroma through the kitchen. Brent stands at the sink, rinses bits of broccoli and cauliflower harvested from his garden, drops them into a bamboo steamer.
Alyssa tilts back a chair, her heels on the table. She studies a travel brochure, its cover decorated with the silhouette of a palm against an orange sunset.
Brent pauses, arms folded, eyes taking her in. "I will make a palace for you and me, of green days in forests and blue days at sea." He says.
"What are you talking about?"
"Robert Louis Stevenson. It's from 'Songs of Travel.'"
"The pirate guy?"
"Yeah, the pirate guy," he says, flicking a tiny caterpillar from a broccoli sprig. "It's about enjoying the simple things in life. Listen:"
 
"I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night."
 
"Bright blows the broom?"
"It's a type of plant."
She laughs. "He can keep his green days," she says. "Give me Grand Cayman and Montego Bay and an on-deck hot tub. I'll sail with you anywhere."
He turns a valve and a gas flame pops to life under the wok. "A cruise ship is so sterile," he says. "Can't we try something different this time? Fly to Belize or Guatemala, rent a jeep, camp at some Mayan ruins?"
"Well, Pirate boy, I don't speak Spanish, for one thing, and neither do you. And I've got no desire to end up as some guerilla squad's prom date. Besides, the only thing I plan to rinse out on this vacation is my swimsuit."
He rips a paper towel form its holder and wipes the water from his hands. "Fine," he says. "But I want to rent a Jeep and go exploring. I want to be able to say I saw more than white folks in straw hats doing low-impact aerobics."
She picks at a callus on her foot and frowns. "Whatever you say, skipper. By the way, now that you mention it, the washing machine still leaks. I picked up some new hoses and stuff in town. Could you take a
look at it?"
"After dinner," he says. He pulls a long-necked bottle from a cupboard and slips the point of a knife under the metal band surrounding its cap.
"What's that?" she says. "I thought we were going to try that new white zin."
He pushes; the point of the knife slips. He holds his impaled thumb over the sink, his blood mingling with the tepid water.
"It's rum," he says. "Suddenly I'm in the mood for some rum."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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