Derelict by Mark J. Mitchell

DERELICT     

Like a language you don’t speak, sorrow claims

your tongue. You don’t know how it arrived here.

The fog, maybe, blown off shipwrecks too near

to call lost. You want to write out the names

until your soul finds the ones you mean to mourn.

But work’s waiting, with its pointless details.

Your bus is coming soon. You’ll wear it all day,

this sorrow. Names will sound, a low foghorn

only you hear. Get on the bus. There’s loss

enough for everyone. And there’s a war—

don’t forget, where nothing ever gets won.

Sun’s breaking clouds in the west and your boss

wants some report or other. Always more.

Foghorns summon lost sailors. Here they come.