for Carson Cistilli
The Boatman, so beyond tired
of the dying. Hoo ha,
the Boatman lies when he says Welcome!
All these years the Boatman’s had no home.
All these years ridden like the Devil’s Rocinante,
Hades’ bitch, gaunt
shepherd, no thanks, no nothing
ever but the endless dead, the mummiform dead
in last attire, always mumbling, mumbling
their Why me? stories, each
more pitiful than the last.
No off hours. No rest, ever. No
scented pillow
for the old skiff or box seats
for the Elysian Games. No after dinner hike
down the road to Gehenna. Always
the dead, the shuffling, mindless dead
holding coins for the ride over the river.
Boo hoo. Boo hoo for the dead.
Coming and going, going
and coming. No one thinks to bring a Scotch
or cigar. Just the boring dead, surprised
by the grimness of the water that rims the land
he’ll never see more of than the shore.