The Tug Boat Captain
Riley Bowen

My uncle, a tugboat captain, 
called this morning, asked 
what my 20s were spelling 
out, he can't remember his own.

	"I've been here less
	than two years, and I've 
	decided to go North."

I meant, I have a tall friend 
in Maine with a spare closet.

My tugboat uncle is saddened 
by my response, he hates travel, 
always wishing to be still. At night, 
the motion sickness turns him over.

He bought a pocketwatch, mail order, 
a thing that had died when he was 25. 
It's the reason his life takes so long, 
each day making its way through 
catalogs, paper packaging, snailed shut.

Somedays I impersonate the previous 
residents. I refuse calls, emails, 
my usual walking patterns.
I let the trash rot. I recite 
monologues from plays I hate. 
I try to break open the air.

The uncle-captain called again today, 
this time while I was busy impersonating 
a man studying quarks, subatomic particles, 
at a midwestern university. In this false state 
I found myself falling in love with the captain.

My youth became rich then,
thick with open plains and cattle 
spilling butter, wide blinks.

	"Quarks are like cream, 
	like waves against a hull. 
	Look out of the porthole 
	now, they're swimming."

I apologized for every forthcoming 
delay, I promised there'd be many.
Unfortunately, at this moment a train 
went by, cut open the telephone wires. 
The neighborhood split, my final message 
left unreceived. The captain never returned 
my call.