On blocks and rusted trailers,
cracked hatches, moldy seats, chewed wires—
squirrels hulling acorns
under a pitted propeller shaft.
Dozens in town. Sun-cracked ski boats,
bloated cruisers, McNary’s Catalina 22—
dog sleeping on the dirty heap of sails. And our Whaler
Dad keeps saying he’s gonna take out
is filling with oak leaves again, bitter
black-stained decks, cracked chrome
and tarnished cleats where we tied up
at Newport with a cooler of crabs
and two coho.