22 August 2017

Come spring, he worked
at his boat,
as though he was
making love.
Just to watch
the motion of his hands,
the cargo of care they held!
First, the sanding
smoothed the weather-eaten
surface, then the certain
drawing of his hand
along the surface, making sure
it was smooth enough to receive
the shellac for sealing it
against rot; and, now and then,
patting it, as though it was
a living being that would
respond to his touch.
Sat the boat afterwards,
to his satisfaction.
He exhaled a sigh of pride,
a boat he was proud of,
proud to be seen with,
proud to feel respond to him
out on the bay.
As I had thought,
his idea of love.

Philip Kuepper
(31 March 2017)