The Ferryman's Complaint

Let’s look at today’s takings:

one hundred and fifty-five

thousand across, out of a potential

six billion customers. Plus one

roundtrip. That’s you. A poet. Nothing, 

proportionally speaking. No,

business isn’t what it used to be.

Nothing compared to what I used to earn:

smallpox, plague, diphtheria,

tetanus, septicemia—when

spears and swords were all the rage.

Homer was quite kind to me.

His doctors never washed their hands

or bloody instruments. They moved

from gut wound to gut wound like the Fates,

up to their elbows in intestines,

endlessly stitching things

shut. A hush surrounded death

back then. Customs were respected.

A coin deposited beneath

the tongue, two coins covering the eyes,

pennies meant something. That’s

how Alexander came to me, Caesar,

countless others I could name.

I never forget a friendly face.

These were the decencies the family

attempted to observe even if

no money could be found. For me,

the thought always counts. I’m not greedy.

I’m not unsympathetic. But

I do have a staff to support. Liability

insurance. Lawyers. Cripples

and children under twelve pay half.

Pregnant women and infants

ride free. They always will. But

at least Homer and friends made 

an effort. You expect charity. Look.

Don’t take my hand. Just look

at these hideous blisters. Look.

I worked my fingers to the bone:

The Somme, Verdun, Passchendaele,

Influenza, Amritsar,

The Invasion of Manchuria,

Guernica, Nanking, The Blitz,

Buchenwald, Dresden, D-Day,

Hiroshima, Korea, the killing fields

of Cambodia, Rwanda. AIDS. The list

goes on. I don’t do charity work.

I’m not in business for my health,

you know. I slipped a disk

ferrying those mystified millions

across this damned river. For free.
I did my bit at Dunkirk, too.
You look surprised. Don’t be.
I keep very careful accounts.
A miracle is what you owe me.