Mutton

I can still hear his voice, lost over the rush of the waves. When really It was a fan, stirring up the sticky heat that sat as still as I did. I’m in the middle now of his grand adventure. It started simply with a word. I hardly knew it had. My friend had so much to say and I had all the time to listen. All at once his descriptions became visible. The green shag carpet under my feet evolved into the hard, shifty surface of a ship. Tumbling over the waves, I see boats draw close. “They come! They come!” Were the shouts. My face is sprayed with water as I lean over the railing. “Catch it! Don’t let it drop!” Cries the captain as white packages fly past my face. But the mutton didn’t make it. The navy is great-- so I’m told by sailors much more experienced then I. “A bed to sleep on every night Three meals a day. Every day.” But the mutton didn’t make it. They come every once and a while Those great, grey boats. Whenever our food supply runs low they’d come find us. And like saviors, toss us our supper. But the mutton didn’t make it. Nobody likes mutton. Not the sailors, not the captain, not the fish. Even the enemy Jap tied to a pole refused to take a bite. So the mutton didn’t make it. Nobody else seemed to wonder where those packages went. Did they float, forever, drifting across the choppy waves? They must have a purpose. But the mutton didn’t make it. I believe it sinks below the sea making it’s way to the shapes wafting in the waves. And every night, the hungry, lost sailers of the sea feast. On mutton.