A Kingdom for a Rudder

Born into a jam already loud,
no seat was saved for me.

The water never asks the fish
what share of the current belongs to it.

They call it "just this,"
as if it held still long enough to be named.
Salad dressing on a wild mountain.

I found a hole in the dyke.
Behind it, only more river.

A pile of shit does not perform for God.
Neither do I.

No rudder was built for this boat.
It moves anyway.

A kingdom, once, for a rudder.
Long spent. Still sailing.