Man Overboard

The crude word

mentions no name or reason.

But do flesh the courtesy of the small maneuver

that swings the stern aside

and with option to all astern

comes back so many minutes, searching the wake.

The system is

faultless; one would suppose

the lookouts erred, till at last

where a green dye stains the blue, the buoy

flung to his reach is bobbing

lightly, of its own weight.

The ship rocks gently,

its beam to the convoy, that goes on.

There is no procedure.

Without a signal, a brief command,

the ceremony has no end,

though pity ebbs like a wake.