Remember when we sat on the graffiti-ed bench -- what wondrous words, "Rage Dionysus", marker-ed across the back rest -- and how the sun descended as the water lifted the military ship docked behind us? I was likely talking through family woe while your kindness sat like a stone beside me. In this poem, the sun hissed into the bay as a pirate ship turned toward us, only you know the truth. The vessel rounded starboard, and a dancing, vested man with a curved sword lifted high, gazed upon our maudlin scene. Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" roared out some speakers. Your head tossed back, as it does when you're struck by goofy beauty, and the painted raven on the brick facade took flight, startled by the suddenly laughing twin stones. Poe would've been proud, or maybe he was the blackness that soared from the brick. Maybe he was the silky shrieking strike through the gloaming.