Prose
There was no time for tears when your bilge pumps failed. Somewhere about two hundred miles off Cape Hatteras, where the HMS Bounty sank and left its captain drowned. You tried not to think of him, swallowed up in those same waters. All you should have been thinking about was keeping your heading, two hundred-five degrees, with some variance to take the ocean swell on the boat’s quarter.
We named you Elisabeth after this street, Elisabeth Street—look where I’m pointing now—on the south side of the city, starting at Fifth National Bank—that’s the square building with the bronze cuckoo on top—and it ends somewhere around the big convention center—the glass circle building where they hold the dance recitals and the spelling bees—where it becomes Convention Center Dr. and no longer Elisabeth St.
