The port swallowed dry the remnants of the last season, dryer than the past and the reason was an unbecoming at the seams of the living.
But that seemed like a lie told by a child to an adult.
You had your own ideas swimming in your narrow canals.
For now, anyway, and tomorrow your thoughts would shift to how to pay the rent.
Which is fine. We aren't meant to live secretly,
with too much time and to draw lines between content
and resentment.
So you watch the thinning tides with intent on knowing how they've changed.
And even though the thick black line of watermark
that dots like mold on the dock tells you, "Here I was,"
the lower stillness of placid surface speaks a kind of whisper now.

You aren't listening. The writing has been written.
You're living even though your life is past tense.
******* work, ******* change. Do something to undo the damage laid plain.

But there are still boats buoyed out in the sea.
And for some that's scary but for some reason to me
"It's fine."