I was a small man playing a small violin on the Titanic.
Imagine a giant’s shoe being pulled through a dry ice fog.
The owner of that shoe would of course be bigger than god.
The wood paneling was inlaid with philosophy,
The napkins were of the finest ontological fallacies.
There was plenty of running and shoving on deck.
The couples would then head below for more formal activities.
Oh, do go on, was the call of the ship's mighty horn.
Nobody had a clue what was coming; everyone was
So young at the buffet. The ship’s captain arrived
In his chariot: his robes and beard were the same color.
He had an air of distracted privilege about him.
I began to play something of my own as he passed.
Now the stars were out and for the first time I felt minuscule.
The cool breeze of the world as it shook out its socks.
The swaying of the sea rocking everyone to sleep.
A woman and her dying husband – or were their roles reversed?
They peered into the dark water with heavy eyes.
Later, of course, the panic would render sleeping impossible.
But for now I was just a small man playing my violin.
I had just written the world’s tiniest mournful tune
For which I had dived to the depths of the human soul.