Seagulls

I went to the deck and wrote, “Not a bad ship,” on the curtains of the restaurant. It had been raining all night, and my shoes were squeaking wet. A lead finger tapped me on the shoulder. A man who had all the epaulets of a retired cook was staring at my neck. He said, “The captain doesn’t allow unsolicited writing on his curtains.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. Taking off my glasses, I said: “Erasers doubt about daffodils.” He tore the top button off my jacket. I said, “These erasers, though flexible in nature, demonstrate a proximity to wild life.” The retired cook was blinking rapidly. With his boots he tapped the deck and with his arms he threw me into the water. “They are superior to glass bottles,” I bellowed, “and they doubt.” As I flapped my arms to keep afloat, I made sure the eraser in my shirt pocket recalled that lonely day in July when bees kept landing on my feet.