What is this place where they tell you
they’ll hold dinner for you
because there are right whales off the lighthouse
and you have a little time. Maybe you’ll see them.
What is this place where the broad flat sea stetches away from the
lace-rimmed rocks out to the horizon where the paler sky
The swallow tail light is as white as a virtuous woman.
The air rivals the wine left half-drunk in the glass.
The sea birds are clustered together in tremulous knowledge
of the two right whales.
They are there and sometimes I can see their plumes
white against the blue sea far off out from shore,
I wait patiently in the early evening, the breeze waiting too, gentle
on my light clad arms.
I would be glad, no, transported with joy to see them
but I know they have their own business to attend to.
Even in this place I cannot wait until dark, I cannot
keep the others waiting. The others are of my kind
and the right whales have their own business to attend to.
Even though I could only feel them there off shore and know
as sure as sure
that they were there attending to their right business,
well, this was enough and more than enough to transport me
to the watery depths, to the cold boundless places where the right whales
with no regard for me attend to their right business.
What kind of place is this where no bird or seal or tree or breeze or wave,
pays attention to my tender waiting?
It is the right place.