I’m down at the place where the rich people park their
yachts, and feel like I have come back home, back when at a kid I crawled under
the hulls of the boats my grandfather build to tighten the lugs on windshields,
he was too old and fat to reach, and in those moments his attention turned elsewhere,
I’d grip the steering wheels and pretend I have gone to sea, still on dry land,
still trying to impress the girl next door, whose well-endowed chest I once saw
when she failed to shut the blinds to her bedroom, sending my hormones adrift, leaving
me (and not for the last time) lost in the high waves I could barely navigate, she
letting me kiss her when she climbed into the boat at night, and still all
these years later, I’m still lost at sea, if not with she, then with another,
down at the place where the rich people park their yachts, as I wonder, are we
all in the same yacht now, me, she and that mysterious other.
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