Death on the Ark

'Can't tell, Dad,' Shem says
every day for the first time, 'can't
tell if we're making any ground.'
The joke is quickly stowed, the snort
outraged the way some wives are
made to tolerate their husbands'
beards, though nothing about a fat
man's face grown ugly in the fork
of tropical lightning appeals.
'If there were a sign, a rock, a buoy,
a lull. If there were a star...'
Another strike portside, another fire,
mad dash with buckets, blankets, bells,
stampedes to nowhere once the smells -
woodsmoke and barbecue - drift lower.
'I like these crispy bits,' Shem's dad
...