This morning

Daryl Thetford

He sits there,

alone in his boat

completely unaware

bundled up against the October chill

in his plaid jacket.

He is oblivious to the fact that he is

being watched

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

silent treatment

reserved for retired husbands who are

Getting Under Foot.

He’ll be leaving in a few days.

Florida,

where it’s warmer in winter.

Or, always was, until the

Climate Change(d).

He sits there, alone in his boat,

tinkering with this

and that,

trying to avoid the inevitability of

docking the boat for winter.

He is completely unaware that

he is a poem.

Or, at least, 

my poem. 

This morning.