What cruel fate to be consigned 
to exist as a zero, SS Something-or-Other 
stenciled on your tubular body

then hung by hooks on a vessel 
safe and seaworthy where nobody ever 
falls overboard. You are doomed 

to be ever prepared but never flung,
ready to float but never unhung, 
poised for rescue yet never used. 

O-ring of life, I sing your praises,
I bless your roundness, your doughnut 
holeness, your silent soundness.

But O, your youth is wasted, waiting for just one 
moment of truth that may not come, 
and not knowing whose life will be on the line,

I cannot predict the who, the place or time, 
the poor castaway adrift, the one lifting the alarm, 
the one requesting relief from harm. 

O, is it me? Look, I raise my arm. 


This poem first appeared in Main Street Rag (Winter 2010).
Used here with the author’s permission.