Friday, October 28, 2016
He sits there,
alone in his boat
bundled up against the October chill
in his plaid jacket.
He is oblivious to the fact that he is
as he watches the water
lap against the side of his boat
at the dock in front of his house.
Perhaps it is too cold to take the boat out.
Perhaps the water on the bay is rough this morning.
Perhaps he doesn’t have enough money for fuel.
Perhaps his wife has given him the
stink eye, the
cold shoulder, the
reserved for retired husbands who are
Getting Under Foot.
He’ll be leaving in a few days.
where it’s warmer in winter.
Or, always was, until the
He sits there, alone in his boat,
tinkering with this
trying to avoid the inevitability of
docking the boat for winter.
He is completely unaware that
he is a poem.
Or, at least,