They work hard in Littleton Harbor
Where container ships roll in their berths
And the diesel smoke flows from the tunnel

He supposes it could have been worse

He thought he might see seven wonders

But mostly he saw seven seas
And the bottom of the bunk above him
And maps marked with depths and degrees


In the evening, he leaned on the railing
And watched the world move beneath him unchanged


He made friends with Russians in Sydney
He danced with Brazilians in Rome

He fell in love once in Dublin for most of a week
When anywhere was more or less home


He scrawled on the pages of sketchbooks
Where he graphed out his Grand Unified
But one warm night out on the Pacific expanse

He dumped them all over the side

He lived such that nobody noticed too much

Kept to his place in the line
But one day he sent off a letter
That got published in the New York Times