The Laura B.

I’m sprawled in the back,

riding out swells and storm tides

that toss this ship like a marriage.

The rusted embrace of nuts and bolts

is painted over year after year,

all the layers peeled and flaked

like a rainbow in a bucket of salt.

Down below, the engine struggles,

but bulwarks hold, and we heave along

without breaking apart.

If only we could stop at each creaking dock,

fill our boat with loyal dogs,

loads of fresh linen, vacation paintings,

the weathered porch facing the sea

and the easy chair of summer,

all the new weight would take us deeper,

steadying our ride.