Scotch And Soda by John Harold Olson

Dying slow near 

the water is not the worst

way to go.

Being hit by a 

wind burst coming around the point

one boozy, sunny afternoon,

Taking all the keel and every 

bit of sudden sobriety

to bring her right. 

That was close.

“Intoxicated local man dies coming

around the point with too much sail” is

how it would read in the free paper. 

But it didn’t happen that way.

It’s going to be the crab.

Slow, this time. 

A different sort of card.

I’ll stand.

Having a cold scotch and soda

looking over the marina.

The boat still berthed,

Almost still.

Proud mast and

Sails furled until the next

sailor goes out.

Someone else.

The drink unfinished.

Thoughts unfinished. 

Breeze smells like water.

Retired Las Vegas teacher now a hospice volunteer.