My wife knows the captain.
I'm a stowaway with a pardon.
He, on the other hand is older,
with pressed slacks and a sumptuous tan.

The Casino has him on a leash.
I'm stingy with my money.

It's windy. We slip below deck
and while we're waiting for our drinks
he relates a story
of when he was a boy,

a poor boy, a happy boy,
in Europe,

how he and his brother
would catch fish, catch trout
with their bare hands.
I watch his eyes

and know he is back there
on his belly

carefully searching below the bank.
The gold bracelet barely moves on his wrist
as he inverts his palm to show me,
to explain how he'd find him

then gently rub the fish's belly
to calm him, to help him happily doze
before he'd grab him
and heave him to the shore.
Who taught him?
How many times did he first miss?

So many questions,
but later I remember

his eyes, his golden wrist,
his inverted palm
as I gently, very cautiously
make a point of rubbing her feet.