Four Bendix engines roar us slowly away
after the excitement of docks, waving goodbye
to strangers whose time will come.
We stroll the deck, the hull not bumping

now we're underway, the bulkhead steel
and rubber and some iron, corroded,
but not much. This ferry's ancient,
fifty cars a trip, a thousand sea gulls.

Halfway over, we meet the other ferry
and wave. Most ignore us, watching gulls
and pelicans through binoculars,
or the other shore, as if staring

could drag it faster like a rope
pulled hand over hand. On the deck,
we don't wonder if steel can keep us
afloat. We're giddy, wind in our hair

a thousand miles from home. Our children
live on shore past the lighthouse
with a grandbaby we haven't seen.
The whole world's stable as this deck

that shudders, big engines slowing down,
massive piling wrapped with dock ropes
thick as my arms, sea gulls atop
and strangers waving, watching us arrive.