"Abby Jo"

He dreamt of being a poet --
Lines lived in his idle thoughts.

Instead, he’s condemned to
Docks and thick,
reeking rope and wrinkles
weathered in his vessel and around chapped lips.

Abby Jo ferried stacks of salty traps,
as she struggled to float,
sinking under the weight
of lobster bait and age.
And he liked to believe he suffered,

Out on the temperamental white caps.
The new morning sun,
He mistook for a blaring,
blinding bother in the sky.

The calm silence of surveying morning spring tides,
the smell of stillness and salt,
were a constant reminders of the beauty
he wished he could write.

And he liked to believe he suffered,
swept away by a surf of monotony,
corkscrewed, helpless,

agonizing, as his hands found their place on the same blistering rope
he’d used to reel in an eternity of traps.