We were not the crew,
not wealthy travelers,
not tourists, not musicians
but merely third-class pilgrims,
emigrants too drunk on hope.
Journey-drained we rested,
crammed and crannied
into pocket-money nooks
waiting red-eyed in tobacco-smoke
and falling feather-light asleep,
dreaming, not of oceans
but of soil, until
we woke at two AM twenty
from a tilt, the sudden jolt
singeing with the sound
of rivets ripped apart
and rush of sea and scent of ice.
We were not afraid but took our clothes
and were actually allowed into
the splendor of the first-class ballroom,
where crew and passengers
could for the first time face each other
and toast to death in free Champagne
as equal first and only doomed
sharing coffin when the Titanic slowly sank.
A poem written about the infamous Titanic for dVerse OLN that opens very soon.
November 28, 2019