Maybe the finest thing Fredy ever
did was show me how the cruise ship
turns around in front of the city
like a dancer in front of her daddy.
Between two bridges on the lips of Miami,
the January sun glares off of port
as the ship dials east on a dime.
It’s named Imagination, but,
more like an elephant, it spins
with a sleepwalker’s caution for corners
and quiet as a miracle.
Then it stops
with it’s bow in it’s own afternoon shadow.
Tiny flapping hands flap even harder
to urge Imagination’s stroll out to sea.
We don’t even get out of the truck.
The shadetree fisherman
Study how the ripples lap the bridge pilings
and ignore the ship as well as the Dodge
as we drive up from under the bridge.
“That one leaves every Thursday at four thirty,” Fredy said.
“You watch it often,” I asked.
“Second time.”
