A Pirate's Life for Thee

My friend would burn his life down
every seven years like clockwork.
Ticking with machinations
clicking into place.
Spinning gears and locking levers
grinding grains to pit
a smooth surface.
Pawl and pinion finding broken teeth,
a balance wheel beating out of rhythm
set on a broken jewel and
trigger happy hairspring
with no escapement.

He was a soldier on campaign
burning bridges
and salting the earth
cutting off opportunity for retreat
or the contemplation of cowardice.
Riding West into the badlands
and enemy territories
tall in his saddle, resolute,
and hard for me to see
watching from the other side
as the trellis matchsticked into the divide.

Or
maybe he was a prisoner
with an animal fear of being trapped,
a chewing off of his leg
for transfer to a different ward.
I watched him slip between the bars
filled with shame born out of fear
for not following when he signaled escape
as the sirens blared
and the bolts tumbled back into lockdown.

No
he was a sailor
casting himself into the swell
to make sure he could still swim.
He picked the Shanghaied bar
for unknown lands, undiscovered country,
blank spaces on the map.
A need for a valiant death
at the hands of black shaped men
with fuses burning in their hair.

But
I cannot name myself
even though I am anchored,
and there is no watch to mark
the passing of my years.
There is no heroism
or even youthful folly
in my doldrums.
No expeditions of bravery
offering articles to test my mettle,
and I am not wiser or reposed
being tied to these safe moorings.