Report from the Frontal Lobe

By Salvatore Dilfaco

Dear Diary, 
Why am I so full of myself?
I feel like a mariner wearing
a navy blue cap and holding his head up
as the big ship bobs to port,
waving the flag of an unknown land.

Maybe the hair on my chest
speaks of previous ties to the mafia
or a way with women of old
and evidence of falling out of step
with the times. Where’re we sailing, Kapitän?
Do you need a cartographer?

I am embroiled in this vision
for no reason that I can conceive.
Sometimes we think of phrases that mean
nothing at all, but we like the way they ring.
One of us should stay on the bridge,
and blow the bosun’s whistle.

Where are we going, Bruder?
If I turn green, get me a pail of ice 
and leave me alone while I pray to die.
Or crash us on the rocks of a small Greek island.
We can turn into pigs, then.
We can take part in a legend.

Where are we going, Kapitän?
I must record it in my diary.
I must report it to the authorities.
I must tell them that I fear you
are leading us into obscurity—
and that the Medizin isn’t working.

Sicilian Canadian poet Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto. He has work forthcoming in RHINO Poetry, Heavy Feather Review and Third Wednesday.