Forgea

Forgea was brought onboard
as a pup.
She got her sea legs young,
from braving storms,
from chasing seagulls
on the deck.

Until her world caught fire,
down where the walls shake,
down where the floor shudders.
Her friends hoisted 
Frankie from the smoke,
laid him down gently
while she stood by, mourning
on the deck.

Then another ship arrived,
her hull sleek as a shark,
gleaming white upon the blue.
That was the day everyone left,
left her behind, puzzled,
tail wagging, head cocked 
on the deck.

Her world went silent, save the sea.
The lights went out,
engines died,
propellers ceased to spin.
Forgea stared across the waves,
lonely, pining for the company
of men who once rolled her ball
across the deck.

No one filled her bowl,
no one fed her scraps,
no one fondly called her name.
She would have preferred
a good scolding,
a sharp smack to this.
All she had were rations
lapped from rain puddles pooling
on the deck.

For three weeks she lay
beneath the burning tropic stars,
the waxing, waning moon,
waves lapping, rocking her to sleep
with dreams of friends working, playing
on the deck.

Then her master returned,
whisked her to a world
that never rocks, never spins.
Now she blinks past spots
from a camera flash.
Now a hundred hands reach out
to pat their hero on the head.
Gone are the long, dark nights,
pounding waves, creaking metal,
while Forgea lay with her chin
on her paws, alone,
on the deck.

Scott Speck
05/02/2002