They Called Him Cap’n Glass… by Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

He had a glass eye
as green as Carolina
hurricane waves,
long curly red hair
and a beard in braids.

He lived on a shrimp boat
with his woman du jour
tied beside the foam of tide
and a board loose dock.

He owned no clocks.
Ate what he wanted.
Pissed where he pleased.

If you were new
to the parties
on Crab Shack Road,
he’d take out his eye
and slip it in your drink.

Every teenager
in the county
drank Jack Daniels
laced with cool glass eye
at one time or another.

The Cap’n had seven
yard scarred kids he
saw some Saturdays.
He drank like a whale;
smoked Lucky Strikes
like they were going
out of style.
When I die, feed me
to the fish, he said.

But that sumbitch
could build a boat
that would make
a convict cry, he
could throw nets
like a ballerina,
gut a fish
slick as glass.
Crank a winch
or a wench with
music in his hands.

He had a PhD
in reading currents,
sun, wind, moon, salt.
When he hauled off
in the pink setting sky,
balanced on the edge
of his bow, it was sweet
poetry in motion.

The Cap’n died one night
when his nets were full.
A ruptured vessel
in his heart; we thought
it pissed him off
to lose such a good run.

They shaved him up like
he was going to court
for the funeral; put him
in a cheap box
and a suit and tie
that were way too tight.
We hoped he might
sit up any minute
and start telling
dirty jokes.

When the preacher
gave a eulogy about
an upright man
who was a pillar
of the community,
we looked around
to see who in the hell
he was talking about.

Then we all laughed
even the preacher,
and maybe even
the Cap’n, because
we know
he’s in heaven
with two beautiful eyes,
pulling nets
and chasing angels.

BIO
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder grew up on the Southern Outer Banks of North Carolina. She dreams of being inducted into the Fish House Liar’s Hall of Fame someday. First prize is a mullet bucket. When not lying about fish, she can be found at The Buffaloe Pen