Our Fathers left Europa
abandoning the whims of the Kings
just so that their sons
could return and die
at the whims of Kings.

Though we fought bravely
in faraway France,
those of us who did return-
Returned to no home.

The war did not touch our soil,
yet those same Industrialists
who built bombs
were not content with
just taking their homes, there.
They also took ours, here too.

They treated us
like barefoot peasants
but couldn’t put us down
with their guns,
so they killed us
with fountain pens.

They took our sails
by regulating our vessels
out of compliance.

They pumped our sea
full of runoff,
poisoning the water,
killing the fish,
and used lawyers
to take our land
and our dignity-
So that we may
no longer be free.

Our way of life,
living in harmony with the sea-
fishing, laughing, drinking…
And weddings that spanned
a week or more
were gone-
just like that.

They made us use English
and forget our own tongue.

By taking our freedom,
they forced us into their factories
so that we too would be poisoned
and maimed just like they did
in Europa,
and like they did
to our beloved sea-
For wages that didn’t even meet ends.

Though,
the Socialists put up a valiant effort,
on our behalf.
Two decades in the court
delayed the expulsion
from our little strip of land
in the harbor.

The old ones got to die
the way they lived.
The young ones left as they do.
Holdouts lasted quite some time.

Once Rosie took ill 
and it was all that I could do
but watch and wait-
Looking up at our driftwood beam,
I prayed to Stanislaus
to give me the strength
to oppose this immoral world.

And he did,
and I knew:

I could die like him, too.

So once she passed
and we said our Mass,
I sold everything.

With the proceeds
I was able
to furnish a small
fishing boat.

Beautiful tree bones-
Wave battered,
and in need of repairs,
with torn sails,
and faded paint-

Just like we used to know.

For that final winter,
I worked and lived
in the harbor
as was my place,
fixing her up-
The best way I knew how.

Many a polski lent a hand,
or a hammer,
or a bucket of paint.
Everyone knew.
No one objected.
Nobody questioned
how an old man
with the Kaiser’s shrapnel
embedded in his leg,
who could barely walk,
would pilot this vessel.

It was our way of life
and death.

So come spring,
when
the Great Michigan thawed.
I set sail.
Passing the Industrial Dump
that used to be our home.
Out of the mouth,
past the Breakwater Light,
and into the open bay.

Finally free,
I never saw land again.