The boatyard is deserted;
slips empty, save the few holding
boats wrapped in tarp & covered for
winter. The last leaves cringing in piles or
swept into crevices
will soon be dust. Father, you read,
stiltingly, with earnest difficulty,
a child’s book to me, one line
at a time, describing this thing. It was
about death. Everything is about death.
I trace my hands against the uneven
deck. A nervous habit. The Sun will be
going down now. The Moon
will be rising. I have outlasted
many. The boats sleep in their slips.