The Captain Ashore

I know a man whose twisted wife
Feeds him each day on humble pie,
She sews her hands in his pocketbook
And pours tears on his Sunday tie.

His children crowd a different table,
Shrewd as squirrels they gnaw the store
Of kernels saved to pay their winter,
Each has a key to the secret door.

And yet his eyes like sun on water
Sparkle, and he stands straight as a mast,
His footsteps ring to a martial music,
We stand at salute when he goes past.