TRANSPORTATION


Sketch


Lying across two seats of the aft lounge of the Ambrose Shea, his brushed brown cotton pants went sideways through marine evening.  His head, the locus of understanding, watched the ship bring up his pants, estimating its own trajectory so as not to vomit on the horizontal.  "These have been good pants," his wife said when she sat beside him, feeling the thigh.  And he thought with annoyance of domestication. Thirty opposite degrees the ship rolled, and the brown cotton pants dipped back below horizontal, bringing up his head to view the Atlantic: a grey portrait in a porthole across a lounge of strewn bodies dozing, eternity in a ship's inclination.  Forgetting his pants for a moment, he decides there are ninety degrees in life, with no tenant's clause on achieving vertical. And as the ship rolls back, he watches the sea bring up his pants again: above his head, the seat of reason, above his head, the seat of passion, above his head, the seat of everything, an ass under the control of great waves.