Bridge Hand
A crew of eight; a sea of red.
All hands to port, then full ahead.
Off the banks and the shoals are tight;
drop anchor when the dock's in sight.
Hard to starboard one man sails,
bearing straight between the rails.
Crossing the bar where the breakers spread,
sailing alone on a sea of red.
A few weeks back I was imbibing at my favorite watering hole (as I am wont to do) and I settled in to watch an evening of pool played among a group of eight divided into teams of two. I noticed at some point that seven of eight were left handed. I understand that being a southpaw is not unusual but, I thought, seven of eight people in the same group must be somewhat rare. I then tucked that thought where I tuck away such things, and resumed watching the games.
Not long after, I remarked to myself as one of the players was attempting an extremely long shot, that the distance to cross between cue ball and target ball covered a lot of red. "An ocean of red," I thought, which immediately retrieved my tucked away bit and I realized there was a poem hiding here. Indeed, there was, and after researching a number of nautical terms the poem revealed itself.
Read it again, keeping in mind it is describing a game of pool. You might need to find the definitions for a number of words if you are as unfamiliar with sea faring language as I.
