Charon Speaks

by Jacob M. Appel

An emu hatchling—since you ask—must rank
Most high among the mix of contraband
These fated pilgrims seek to sneak across
Though we’ve had ducks and geese and swans galore
Manuscripts, deeds of trust, aircraft designs
Fraternal pins, wedding bands, sterling baby spoons
And ragged dolls enough to tip the skiff
If we’d allowed them on. And that’s beyond
Our usual yield: Countless sacks of clothes,
And diapers, cloth and pulp, and hoards of food
—Supplies for herds of displaced refugees—
And what a thankless task to clear their eyes
(Though Lethe’s waters often do the trick)
These men who stash their billfolds in their socks
Drunk fools concealing flasks and fifths of scotch
Gun-toting smugglers armed with skag and coke
And one damn clown who brought a fishing pole
And had the nerve to cast for trout in Styx
But nothing can compare with household pets:
Folks feel entitled. They assert their “rights”
Like they’re bargaining with Delta or JetBlue
And claim they need emotional support—
But anyway, this emu was the worst!
You should have heard the poor bird fret and squawk
While that old biddy clutched it to her breast
And lullabies shivered from her tongue
Above the cries of obol-seeking rogues
Bound to the docks. It was too much, I say.
And yet we had to pry that bird away.

The effort took its toll I must admit
Rendering us softer than we knew
For soon a lifeless bride clambered aboard
Still clad in satin whites and without speech
Around her throat a locket of white gold
That opened on a photo of her love.
We let her keep it. A rare concession.
What would death be without a few exceptions?