I would hate it,

I would hate it,

The confinement

Of a cruise.

Wrapped up in a blanket

On a promenade deck

Watching the horizon

As ageing lotharios

Dinosaurs

And nere-do-wells pass by

Stuck in a cycle of repetition.

The boat is a ship

Allegedly,

A Mobius strip nobody goes anywhere

For very long.

Taking a turn,

Coming around again and again.

I might be found dead after a while

As cold as a sad sack,

Dry skin

Stinking of suncream,

Withering under the gaze

Of a boatload of lizards

With loose gizzards,

Flowery shirts and baggy shorts,

Once one person goes down

We all do.

Purpose-built,

Planning for all eventualities.

Quarantines can be fun

With an event organiser

And party planners.

All hands on deck

For the crossing-the-line ceremony

When most of the passengers

Did that a long time ago.

I would be keelhauled for insubordination,

Not a team player

A stuck-up know-it-all

Who calls himself a writer

When all he does is moan about

Penny dreadfuls

And Agatha Christie.

Death on the QM2

A very British scandal

Handled with care.

The Captain,

Calm and reassuring.

I would retire to my seat

On the lee side,

Out of the hustle and bustle

Of shipboard

Murder and romance

Where the air would be bracing

Enough to shiver my timbers.

Freezing my deadman’s chest

All the way down

To the plimsoll line

And with any luck

I might sleep

All the way through it.