Barely nineteen, he shipped for life.
On a cold windy Pacific shore
carrying relatives?
Old polluted tin cars,
and refugees mailing brown letters;

Silently noted
his lover of his depart.
               One July dawn,
               when the boat calmed.
He knew his biggest regret sailed too.

Later, with new wife and son,
he’d scan the lake for her scooner.
Kawartha grasses grew deeper.
He had a daughter Rosemary,
his past, only a cinematic keeper.

A smirk and a pinch meant “love”.
He ate jam on toast at 7am sharp.
His daughter wore whorish nail polish,
another mistake he’d eventually forgotten.

At Eighty, trembling his hands;
he put on the nights hockey game
        meeting death on a shoot out.
Embracing the warm uncertainty
of the son he left behind.
                     Only to set sail again.