Old boat I have used you
grown dry and checked,
heavy on your timber cradle,
tired of all the bullshit
and messing.

Ripping the glass cloth
they laid on your keel
I felt the power
of a labored birth;
the stagnant smell of years
of damp-rot
and patchwork.

Neither am I proud
of your plywood deck, knowing
too well I wasn’t built
for ease of maintenance.

We repair each other
to our barest hulls,
and strengthened
work from there.

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