Retirement, pirate style

We ran down from the town, loot

in our hands and arms, to water’s edge,

small boats waiting to ferry us back

to the Sea Witch, when Capn, a millennial

no less and looking more a boy than a man,

nodded me aside, and rasped quickly

through broken teeth, his breath rummed:

“Bluebeard, old man, it’s been a good run.

Time to rest on the beach a bit.” He smiled,

knocking me over as two of my mates

quickly tied my feet and ran for the boats.

They left me my loot: a gold watch.

Retirement, pirate style.

Better than a blade in the ribs,

I suppose.

Untying the knots, I watched them

row to the ship, and would have stayed

on the sand except I could hear

angry voices from the town, clamoring

for blood with only mine available.

I did what any self-respecting pirate

would do, and made a run for the trees,

run being a relative word, similar

to scuttle and stagger.

So I lived in the forest for a time,

until the town could rebuild

if not forget, eating nuts and

small moving things, not a diet

I would recommend.

I plotted my second career, and one day

a bedraggled and barefoot man

washed up on the beach, a castaway,

the only survivor forced to the plank

he said, after a terrible pirate attack.

They took me in, and fed me,

and housed me, and took care

of a fellow victim, and I repaid

kindness with kindness. I worked

hard, I served, only reluctantly

did I accept honors and accolades.

Eventually, they elected me governor.

And I became a pirate again.

This week, Tweetspeak Poetry has a poetry prompt on pirates and aging (it was rare, way back when, for pirates to age much beyond 2 or 3 years after becoming a pirate, because they died). To see what others had to say (and write), please visit Tweetspeak Poetry.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.