Pin-straight it preens,
jutting its prow forward.
Its sails frolic on high,
light dancing up and up in the wind.
At first it seemed a comfort, but now I know
it’s a sick man
grunting and heaving
with the rattle of rusty anchors.
He flaps and heaves,
his mouth a spitting blackness of half-chewed tobacco.
Barefoot we scurry in panic downstairs,
slip on lime-scrubbed floorboards.
Narrow and long, it chases us, seeking
to seal us into its coffin shape.
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, the utterly charming and always inspiring Anna is encouraging us to use unusual metaphors and create a poetic conceit.
findingtimetowrite 