I'm a folksinger, he said
 

Folksinger

There was this place down on Carrall Street in Gastown,
separated from the harbor by rows of railroad tracks.
Sometimes in the midst of a song you could hear a train
pulling in, or a foghorn sound out on the water. One of the
singers who played in that joint showed up one night with
his right leg in a cast. Older guy, Trent, raw tobacco voice,
expatriate eyes. He wrote ballads about life on the sea. I
spoke with him a couple times. He wasn't particularly
friendly, but meant his words, and his words were sound.

A small coffee house at the foot of the stairs
Candlelit tables and unmatching chairs
Listen to my song, he said, have ears before I go
This may be the last one, you never ever know

The last time I saw him he'd broken his leg
A port-addled Ahab in search of Queequeg
Nicotine fingers picking a parlor guitar
Eyes full of storms, mouth for a scar

Tobacco chaw stories he spat in a bowl
Pulling his words from the hold of his soul
Like nails, bent nails, that no longer served
To hold him together, rusted and curved

He was a folksinger, he said at the start
And took his sweet time taking all his wisdom apart
One foot on a chair, one anchored to the floor
This master of the language and the lore

Never again, he sang, never again
The sea will no more give up its treasures to men
An albatross follows my ship in the mist
And death is a lady who waits to be kissed

And love, what is love, to a captain whose life
Took a storm for a compass and port for a wife
We drank coffee bolstered with pirated rum
The candles were melted and midnight had come

A small coffee house at the foot of the stairs
Tuna tin ashtrays and unmatching chairs
Listen to my song, he said, have ears before I go
This may be the last one, you never ever know

DL