approach, from the west
the falling tide
pushes the bow out,
into the channel.
a half turn left
angles the motor,
idle slowly, into position,
the narrow slip.
too far, the oysters
will take your hull.
too short, the current
will drag you back,
circle for another pass.
no, throttle up,
like tossing a dart
against the wind,
slide the bow sideways.
passed the pilings
full turn port
back down hard.
the stern falls off
and the skiff
into her slip.
make fast the lines,
raise the motor,
and welcome home.
I never seem to lose the crappy pens,
those cheap plastic ballpoints with flimsy caps
or the clickers that jam with pocket lint.
Those pens, the unwanted, are everywhere.
Now, the pens I like, the magnificent
pens with thick, dark ink and confident lines
that rest in that defining joint, as if
they were always meant to be there. Those pens,
who respond to the slightest touch, who dance
across the page, at first pulled, then pulling.
Ideas pour from those pens. The hand follows,
struggles to keep up with a pen whose thoughts
are now its own. Those pens who command words,
who create worlds. To whom the writer is
merely a mechanisms, whose hand is
just a crook for the pen to settle in
while it creates the universe. Those pens,
I always seem to lose those pen.
No matter how we try to stop her, the sea is still flowing.