George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
“Sweet Pirate of the Heart, Not Pirate of the Sea,” Emily Dickinson called him.
He spent a lot of time reading the latest verses she’d given him.
He’d read them over and over, wondering when he could travel to Amherst for more.
So absorbed in reading, he didn’t notice the rocks ahead.
No, not some spice’s mutiny. Nor some Altar’s Perfidy.
Rocks. Large rocks in the water.
That’s what the ship wrecked on.
George crawled ashore and looked around. Boston Harbor.
George smiled and hired a carriage to Amherst.