STREET-CAR GRAB-LINE IRON
Having walked here from Ft. Cartegena,
I ended up only by accident on the
shore at old Red Hook. Two sailships
were at safe harbor. Waiting for me?
Small craft came out, three men in
each. As they docked, I went out to
meet them, along the shore. I was met
by a volley, and they yelled not to move.
I remained still, expecting more.
-
They then approached, yes, and threw
me to the ground, beating me around
my head and face. Face down, in the
sand, and beneath a boot, I saw the
blood. They dragged me off and threw
me into the water, saying the salt and
surf would do me good. For healing.
And then they laughed, and threw me
down again. Ropes and shackles. They
dragged me away and into one of the
small boats.
-
While they rowed me off, I played
at greater hurt than I really had. I
figured it would help and, yes, they
let me be. Men like this talk, useless
and vicious. There is nothing good.
We landed back at their large craft.
I was hoisted up and aboard, and
thrown into this small cell - days
and days ago now - and we've been
a'sea, ever since. No words. Only
the days and the nights as I note
them passing through this small
opening that passes for a view.
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