A sailor and I watched a one-legged man
carry himself on a crutch.
His head swayed with each hobble,
his beard was muddied brown,
but was certainly white a week ago.
“He’s gottit innem,”
spat the sailor.
“Pardon?”
I asked.
“He’s gottit innem.
ah c’n tell thru site
whenna man’s had ‘is fill
of laborin’, of huntin’,
of days on tha deck.
Bu’ some-tahms a man’s
bin battered bloody,
dragged ‘n chains ‘n’
forced ta pov’rty,
‘n’ still wants ta dew some moar!
They’s a thing they got,
‘n’ he’s gottit innem.”
My head bobbed and I
pretended to know.
“Right. Of course.”