Call Me What You Like

You call yourself an orphan, 
Ishmael. Your thirst quenched 
by neither of Ahab's legs. No,
revenge did not have designs 
on you. You watched,
you whaled, you called 
it like it was - unprofitable life,
epitaph, coins cast
with newer faces. Guides.
Idols. Giant, piercing editors. 
Each sang to you, Ishmael, 
none your muse. You,
patient, witnessed, glanced.