wish I was at sea
any one of the seven
there’s nothing left
here for me
just a
chilly dank evening
talking to my scar
wooden ships
iron men
on the old boat
hands in my p-coat
wind/salt water in my face
buoys will be boys
the blue frontier
too old now
no more walking the bow
future so muddled
towed back to port
permanent dry dock
sailing days scuttled