This Is Not About Lettuce.

It floats downstream, out in the wild

rough oceans, cold and alluring,

it offers of a sense of perspective, of size

and demand, dwarfing my intentions,

aiming to strike me down, the iceberg

comes, I feel secure,

I know what I see and the size as it rises

with the swell of the sea, ringing the bell

more out of politeness, out of a civility

that is engrained into my soul,

I don’t mention the iceberg,

I don’t scream out warnings, holler,

holler, holler, holler, I just

let the bell clang out a merry tune

so not to disturb the passengers

and stowaways on my vessel;

they do not need to worry about anything,

up here in the wheelhouse,

the iceberg cannot touch me.


Ian D. Hall 2017