The Starboard View of the Soul

“It’s a slow winter tide, this life.”
whispers Tim, frost on his breath.
I think he meant the frozen waves
that crash along in the Bering Sea,
churning wicked shards of ice
over, and over.

He wasn’t much of the talking type, Resin Tim,
so I take my own liberties with his words.
I try to find poetry in his silence
and his frozen, empty chest.

The deckhands like to joke
about a day when Resin Tim ran out of bait,
supposedly he ripped out that pulsating organ
and cast it into the sea instead.

I can tell though, from his human moments like this one,
that his permanent winter actually came from the same day
when he got his name, from the scorned bride
who’s picture is proudly hung at the stern
but is never mentioned.
The same day the Resentim set sail for good,
and Tim first started to resent himself.