Cafe in the Port of Brighton. Chairs do not shuffle on the floor here.
Joni doesn't drink much. Just a man, and his elbows are
firmly placed on the table.
He's married with (to) the sea.
And nobody jokes about it.

Joni's eyes are white.
His left fist is always clenched,
his deadly smile is of silver.

The seiner is small. About a two hundred HPS engine.
They trawled mainly for codfish.
He, as a machinist and three people more. They need not have been counted.
They spat into the sea, and they slept long.

A dingy photo was pinned up in his berth. A girl with someone else.
Whether had it been cut from a magazine or it was really taken
somewhere but the guys stole the photo and hanged some crappy stuff there.

He slaughtered the whole crew (so they called themselves).
The bodies he threw overboard.
They irritated him somehow.
He drove the ship to the shore but didn't land.
He waited, smoked, bathed, looked for the photo.

And he kept still at the court but wrote something.
He became slim and severe.

The ship is running again. Joni's cabin is clean.
Everyone knows the story
and takes it seriously.

I love you all