OMG! What Hath God Wrought! Aboard the Sully, 1832
God, thinks Samuel Morse, hath wrought not quite enough.
He wants to call ahead for someone to meet his ship
when it docks, but he's stuck in the mid-Atlantic
twiddling his thumbs listening to some fool ramble on
about electromagnetism, whatever that is.
Maybe they'll herald his return with a ticker tape parade.
If only he'd shut up. If only they had birds at sea
to wake you in the morning with their chorus of
pips and whistles, perhaps a woodpecker tapping
for breakfast, each species able to recognize their own song.
If only he had something to do to relieve the boredom.
If only his paintings were worth a thousand words,
or if not that, dollars. If only he could speak to his daughter
in a language she could understand. If only the stitching
on the canvas chair didn't leave an imprint on his skin
every time he got up, that no amount of rubbing could erase.
If only. If only. The weather's lovely, not so much as a breeze.
If only lightning would strike.
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