The Boats - Erin McKeown

the boats, the boats, my wooden boats
were never meant to dry
what is a boat that cannot float
and rots from air and sky?
I nailed a sheet, I named it twice
I waited on the spit
for wind, for wind, some kind of wind
to come and sail with it
this is my boat, my favorite boat
I built it with my hands
and on its shell, my earthly hull
I have become a man
some are washed and ground ashore
and some get thrown by tide
but this new world of mold and smell
it simply drowns my pride
and in the wake, I am awake
with no one to take the helm
and what I built with labor hard
grows still and soft and calm
we turn the cheek, we try to hope
for boats from other shores
and in the end we are alone
who are we to hope for more
some are washed and ground ashore
and some get thrown by tide
but this new world of mold and smell
it simply drowns my pride
the boats, the boats, my wooden boats
were never meant to dry
what is a boat that cannot float
and rots from air and sky?