How Sick'to Wait'in Any Place'but Thine

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How sick-to wait-in any place-but thine-
I knew last night-when someone tried to twine-
Thinking-perhaps-that I looked tired-or alone-
Or breaking-almost-with unspoken pain-

And I turned-ducal-
That right-was thine-
One port-suffices-for a Brig-like mine-

Ours be the tossing-wild though the sea-
Rather than a Mooring-unshared by thee.
Ours be the Cargo-unladed-here-
Rather than the “spicy isles-”
And thou-not there-