Someday he'll buy a sailboat
something small
a twenty-five footer
just a jib and a mainsail
a little sloop
a couple of grand
he'll fix it up
on a sandy beach
with his jeans rolled up
wind blowing sand in his hair
he'll paint it blue and white
and call it
something
he doesn't know yet
but he'll call it something
and he'll launch it into the harbor
and pack it with
tin cans of food
and a rusty old typewriter
with extra ribbons
and a dozen or so reams of paper
then he'll sail away
tacking into the wind
zigzagging away from
the man he left behind
on the shore
the man with his leg
anchored to the pier
he'll clip along on the waves
waving back to himself
scared and happy
waving back from
The Santa Maria
