There’s something about a tie,

            symbolically speaking,

like how the ascetic draws his moral

authority from how his hairsuit wears him,

or how the duck rings his own neck with a

sixpack’s garter just to be featured on the

evening news:

            And tonight folks, a daring Brooks

            Brothers rescue of a man from the

            weariness of his own life.


For these reasons the jib is no longer a sail to like the cut of,

            but a tie,

which is natural for we ships,

passing witless in the dark night,

pulling tight not bowlines but Windsors; we,

barges following the wake of tugboats

like goslings after their mother,

            an animal who,

            metaphorically speaking,

also wears a tie,

as when the traincars define the locomotive.


Only when that first knot is sized do

we realize our dreams are only dreams,

and no matter how compelling the waves

we must always return to port, and should,

if we must traverse the same route all our

lives, atleast meet the bodies of a few

friendly vessels along the way,

and perhaps like the cut of their jibs, or

            literally speaking,

their ties.