The Jetty

Sometimes I still dream the boyhood dream

A boat with no steam
Just a sail and the wind at his back on the open ocean—
In my mind
I take that little old fighter,
Just some shoddy old sawn timber and
A little chewing gum really,
And push off from the jetty
To get away from it all.
I move peacefully through the canals,
Feeding the swans,
Trolling, for baby blues—
It’s a Sunday,
And I’ve nowhere to be.
The bay is rough on Tuesday
And the dead baby birch
With the bed sheet tied to it
I erected and clamped down to the center of the boat
Wavers as the choppiness of the water
And the surface area of the waves
Belabors my efforts to reach sea.
Finally, here I am,
Winds are swirling
And I’m clinging to what’s left of the boat
Praying to God I am heard.
All alone
Out here, in my mind,
I’ve had it—
The present slowly comes back into focus,
 I’m in a place I know well—
Though things still seem rocky,
And although I’m surrounded by family,
This is better than before.
The weekend’s just begun,
And on Sunday I’ll cast my line from the shoreline
And ride out the rest with those closest to my heart.