I stand and consider myself,
again bared by the common ritual
of the shower, my stripped admit
with this steam-blushed soaped nudity.
And an idle thought:
I am so far removed from the sea’s wash
which once set upon my ship-wrecked
predecessor, Edwin Porritt, son of William,
lost off Sunderland, there taken under:
He drank pints of brine, the choked round;
lit and directed by the full moon’s
weighted pull? Her, the false emitter,
the night’s harvester, the cutter of men.
I’ll not be dragged under by this pathetic wash
off the shower head, descended from Edwin,
my great-great grandfather, ship’s engineer,
struck from the family tree – ‘Drowned’.
And I step out, clean.