Yellow stripes litter the wine-dark asphalt
Like the broken ribs of wrecked ships,
Telling car-boats where to moor.
Here, amid the pilings in the port
Of this petite Giant, a carswain maiden
Stands sentinel, leans against
The bed of her bobbing truck.
She signals ashore to me via Morse Code
from a cigarette’s burning cherry;
I send a message back, but do not think
Carefully of all that I may be saying
Through haphazard inspirations, expirations,
And the semaphore of hand-to-mouth.
What if it had been an honest S.O.S.
Which she just blinked to me?
I must now ponder more carefully
All that I still would not have said.