They say I'm in for a year long trip. But maybe less.
a year, or less, of sea sickness, the kind of which no Dramamine will soothe.
I'm surrounded by water I can't keep down
and kept afloat by dark women in white coats.
This clipboard is my life-vest.

Better say good bye now because,
when I finally wash ashore, it won't be to the home I left.

My bed will look very different.
My lover, too.  It will be much longer than a year for her.  
She'll live a lifetime, again and again, with every moon and every sun,
Her body revealing the truths her spirit can't yet face.

Until then she'll stand by water's edge and throw corked bottles of brilliant green past the froth, invoking Poseidon's dominion,
inaudible over the ocean's orchestral din.