The blinds open, the curtain’s gone, the serial
Replayed each year, the TV images
So brief, the seep of seawater, relief
That only one hurricane, lonely, fearful,
Can kill the gulls holed-up against the wind
Inside Duffy’s (semi-abandoned) Inn,
And not feel fears that Lancelot the Ghost
Will wreck the coast, for we have sinned. .
Duffy’s mom, since her fall, can hardly walk.
Bathroom to bedroom to card table chair
To stare at the sea, its seasons. It’s spurious,
The sea, furious at being spurned again.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not with our stars.
The blinds are open, the curtain’s on Mars.