You have seen them,
proud boats obscuring the views
of coastal homes in travel magazines.

Not so much here, in the suburbs of Houston.
My galleon was always destined for the back lawn.
After several deep sighs from my wife I knew.

Then a letter from the homeowners association
brought about the bough. My grand voyage
reduced to the corner of this back yard.

Look at this less than sea-worthy thing:

— Light blue paint, peeling.
Rudder kicked out to one side,
hanging by a single bolt.

I like to walk along the hull.
Rub the scars, stain my fingers
with the old brass; share splinters
with dry wood.

I know enough about boats and marriage
to realize the likelihood of repairs.

I drop anchor among the weeds,
watch my neighbor cut his grass
and bury myself in this cutting sea.