Rick Kempa

Midnight, and a breeze-blown spray

strafes my cheek. My eyes flare open,

muscles tense, poised for the onset

of that old nightmare, a frenzy

of wrestling with a billowing tent

while rain pummels my back.

 

But instead of blackness blotting

out the sky, it’s moon I see,

a pale orange scow jauntily riding

the swells of night, black breakers

and a foam of stars.Be calm,

the skipper calls down.

All is well.