Midnights Cargo Poem by Stephen S. Yeandle

One of the Capt’s
of the burlap fleet;
a square grouper
Flotilla of
long, long ago.

10 tones of
duck taped bundle’s,
37 dozen
parcels of
organic gold.

Savage seas,
no running lights.

Slipping through the
Windward Passage,
west to the Caribbean
waters of home.

Past Cozumel,
beyond Cancun.

On the way
to the Mexican,
Gulf.

North by east
our heading;
toward
a silent
clandestine encounter,
five miles off
the Florida Keys.

Shuttle craft approach by signal;
Cigarette - Donzi - Midnight Express.

Our faith is bonded
by fragile cord.

Not completed
nor defeated,
night wears on.

The weather was blowing,
and the sea was
mounting,
as
a stallion would for a mare.

Torrents of rain,
a shroud over
vision.

The more troubled the ocean and sky,
the more safety
therein for
me.

The man with the orange striped tie,
was reluctant
to fly in a gale.

Radar disruption for the Cutter patrol,
the dreadful weather;
an ally this night.

Soon.

Steps made of Ivory,
tossed with
peddles of
Rose

We will live like kings,
until we’re
dethroned...