“ho, ahoy, ho.”
there was no response;
he shuffled up the hill to the zenith,
looked out on the world,
or
the small part of the world surrounding him
except
the Pacific to the west,
the vast sea where 
he had been a mariner,
a talker to the sea
on the oceans and the seas
aboard those ships in the harbor below,
those warrior women with 
armored visors, the bridge,
from which the talker peered out
to determine safe passage.

at the top of the hill, the talker stood,
no longer able to ride those waves:
restricted by infirmities of those talkers 
who lived to age;
from the pocket of his frayed pea coat,
he pulled out a boatswain pipe
attached to a white lanyard the bosun’s wife
had macramed;
the pipe on which
the bosun had taught him to pipe
and
then gave the pipe and lanyard to him
as the talker left his final ship.

the talker held the pipe in his right hand
with his index finger 
curved over the pipe’s “gun,”
put the pipe to his lips,
and
trilled “attention” to no one
for he was the only one to pause and listen.

the talker stood at attention, 
looking toward the horizon,
but
no ship appeared, not even “hull down;”
after a short while, he turned,
shuffling back down the hill
to never return again.