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.
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