It’s six and September so
the sky is gilded at the edges
in small leaves and slivers on the water
when the boat moves off the dock.
I have a book of poems
in my palm
and a man runs a polisher over the
coffee-colored floor in gentle whirs along
the window seats.
Tonight the beer came in a bottle so this
changes the timing of taking it in,
the crossing, the rhythm of things
to the other side
the polisher goes quiet—
“Yay. It’s back on. Thanks.”
A cord undone.
I could sleep and sleep
on this boat
back and forth, so many times
shore to shore
with the hum of engine, the smell
of oil and use, warm.
Just curl up
in a corner where sun has faded the vinyl
and the hear the hiss and thump from
the galley kitchen—Lorinda spraying dishes.
We are pushing through currents,
vibrations and then just
the gentle tug of water against hull.
I could sleep and wake and write.
I could call my mom and in a quiet voice
describe the kind of blue that surrounds me,
how it changes each hour, sky to water
to sky to shore.
And she would tell me “That’s funny”
when it really isn’t funny at all
but I would know what she means and that
in her mind, she is sitting right next to me,
going back and forth
across this little sea, together.