tied sailors’ knots in ropes three times the size
of two of his ankles at 15, in the Navy since he lied
to the recruiter. Turn another leaf in his scrapbook
a photo where he’s squared off boxing a boy two times
his weight, but I bet Dad’s gold-capped tooth glinted
in the lowing Greek sun, gifting a clean left hook
honed from bare fist fights across the hills back home

alone top deck to dream about exotic ports from old
sailors’ tales between flasks of rum or whiskey
slipped so smooth to the pretty Kentucky boy
who’d known every rock rise and briar patch
in woods along the Ohio river that cast a spell
beckoning him to strange lands with every barge
bellow that chugged away from his anthill-of-a-town

the tightest rope of all wound his heart as the Roosevelt
sailed beyond his river’s reach, caves beneath midnight
blue waters rose from depths between sea mountains
and Singapore dives, Sydney brew halls didn’t give shit
if a boy lost his sea legs among men who’d trolled through
uncountable years, their aftershave thick as the smoke

from their free cigarettes. The tattooed anchor pinked
around edges on his fair skin as his thoughts swam
to the other side of the world to his hunting dog, Sally.
His gold tooth gleamed less in each new seaport. How
many cigarettes did it take to cross the Atlantic, sail around Cape
Hope, ponder what caused the White Cliffs of Dover?

How his heart rope tightens when gazing at Kodak Brownie
captures of the Seven Wonders, his voice grows down
from trying not to tell it all. Sydney was where he dwelled
in his stories I’ve been all over the world, no need to go back
In the last image of him in yet another bar, his smoky eyes peer
straight into the camera, his gray-whiskered buddies on each side
one hand on their beers, the other around his neck, eyes unfocused.
Through the haze, I see my father’s aged, now the country boy
with the thin veil of knowing, fresh on his face. Neptune’s Bar
scrawled in white shoe polish in the long mirror behind him
backwards.