Two Padded Slippers

He’s slipped off the side, quietly,
without a scream.
The others notice nothing. They
are warm and have gin to occupy them
from the shadow blurring past their porthole,
dropping, dropping...
Into the murky depths.
His padded slippers
are being soaked–the fur,
matted–the lining, damp,
and the smell of his cologne,
a murmur on the breeze.

Another communique from Leland,
saying to watch the captain carefully,
“...because tonight is the anniversary,
you see? Eighteen, she would have been.”

“We know, we’ll light candles
and such. Yes, we will stay very warm tonight.
And you the same, thank you.”
It’s just voices, disconnected.
The atonal rasp of a heart,
beating against the whitecaps
and with each lurch, coffee,
tea, wine, and nightcaps slosh onto the floor.

The pair of padded slippers descend on slowly
to unknown and unknowable leagues. Joining
with creatures of phosphorescence inbuilt–creatures
that swim without fear, without remorse.
And the knowledge to them,
that is most precious (ignorant to it, though)
that the dark is the father,
the pressure, like a cold breast,
the mother.

In the fathom grotto
there is a pair of padded slippers,
and a man who smiles up, opening
trenches that grow to deep chasms,
that glow, far below, a sullen, angry red.
He eats the sand of course–
when, that is, he can find it,
but the dead always know where to look.