O Captain! My Captain.

O Captain! My Captain

   Your linoleum yard gave you away.
   You lived near no Green Jeans farm.
   And your dumb bunny rabbit was
   a hand-stuffed cloth. I knew.
   Yet the ringed keys that escaped
   your kangaroo pocket
   unlocked my sleep-worn smile.
   I've held on to your redemption stories:
   Mike Mulligan's steam-shovel furnace;
   a swan found among ducks;
   a snow man dressed to life;
   a tin soldier melted into a steadfast heart.
   Marking another time, the little red lighthouse
   stands still under the George Washington Bridge.
   Leaning against the dining room wall,
   my grandfather clock sleeps through this labored life.
   Like clever soldiers trudging foreign roads,
   I concoct soup from cabbage and carrots and stones.
   Sometimes I survey a crowd hoping an overstuffed
   bear will step out and dance us delirious.
   Does Ping still live
   on the banks of the Yangtze River?