BUOYANT

I am a life vest

lost at sea,

shipless and

and useless

without a body

to float,

to save.

Go ahead,

pluck me from the Pacific

with the hook-end

of an umbrella,

call the Coast Guard,

talk them telephonically

into the harbor and then

hand me over to that white vessel of whimsy,

bulging with giddy boys and girls

like an orphan to infants.

Watch me from the pier

(why aren’t you waving

or blowing kisses, or crying?)

as they take me out to sea,

into the grey horizon,

to some place

you can't see

or even further,

sadder now

than when you found me,

just there bobbing by the rocks,

along the shoreline,

free as a thing alone,

and buoyant all by itself.