THE GRAVY BOAT OF LIFE

The camels insisted we walk
across deserts,
providing dull conversation
about previous trips
with cohorts of traders
and the plight of sand.

What’s with all this fucking sand / I said / it’s enough
to give one the hump.

And the camels nodded glumly.

But it wasn’t just the conversation,
it was the smell,
camel gloom
and heatstroke.

At night we had to face the intrusion
of archaeological ghosts
wafting in and out of our tents,
some of them drunk,
most of them grumpy,
sour faced,
pock-marked,
tarty old ghosts
with nothing to show
for their dreams
but death.

I took a slave girl
as my concubine
although judging by the state
of our love
I think it was the other way round.
I paid the bills,
she made the bills,
some would say
an amicable agreement.
Others would call it
daylight robbery.

The courts called it marriage.

We lived in bemused scepticism
for awhile,
fluctuating between arguments
that were small
and arguments
that were big
until one day
all those arguments put together
created this massive black hole
that sucked in our love,
the Hoover of heartbreak.

She rode away on my camel
(insult! injury! marriage!!)
and by the time
she came back
I was packed and gone
leaving her with more ghosts
of a personal nature
(and my camel).

I moved to the city,
worked my way through pay checks,
got into a rut
successfully,
a successful rut,
wanted more,
got less,
drove a car I couldn’t afford
that drank more
than my camel,
and complained about
everything.

And isn’t that just the gravy boat of life.

The ghosts
keep piling up,
the complaints
never leave,
and suddenly we find
ourselves
elderly,
somewhat aggrieved,
(with more hump than the camels)
and wishing for times
that flit like trombone notes
in the ether of the swing band.

Makes you think
we shouldn’t have been so successful
in our rut,
and more awake
in our lives.

Makes you think
we shouldn’t have entertained
our ghosts for so long.