It's a cold wintry night.
I build a fire in the hearth
and cuddle-up with a good book,
my favorite, my old standby.
Yes, it's me and my old friend Ahab,
sweet, sweet man that he is.
You know, he was the apple
of his mother's eye. He was.
Sweet Ahab. And generous,
that gold piece sparkling in the sun!
I envy him his tangible pain,
and his quest. Sweet revenge!
Life is so simple if you're Ahab.
There are no imponderables,
there is one truth, and it's out there,
somewhere, so very real.
Hanque O . . .
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/me-and-ahab/
