The Serious Work of Life-Saving

Inside are a few relics of a time long past.
Old-style life preservers. Oars. Thick hemp ropes.
There are pictures on the walls. Black and white.
Rows of hearty men with amazing mustaches
at the edge of the sea in their wooden boats.
Serious faces.

Life-saving is serious work, and their faces reflect it.
No one needs to be saved in calm waters.
There is risk, even for the rescuers.
It takes preparation and alertness,
scouring the waves for the near lost.

There is a brass plaque near one of the windows,
a list of names. Lives lost in the act of saving.
Mostly, though, the building is empty.
Shipping lanes have changed.
Fishermen go far further out to sea,
seeking ever more elusive shellfish.
There is less need for an outpost
like this old building. It has become a museum.

Still, there are some, like you,
who need such a place. A place to be saved
even in still waters.
Who need to release the museums that haunt
and settle back into yourself,
to apply the oars of soul work
to finding your own shores.

You imagine how you must look.
Wild hair and distant eyes.
Incredibly still for incredibly long.
It would make for a good picture,
to set in the rescue station next to the others.
Life-saving is serious work,
even when it is your own.

About this poem

Inspired by the picture above – the life-saving station at Race Point outside Provincetown, Massachusetts. About its history and purpose. About doing the things that save our own lives. Poetry is never about just one thing.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom