by Les Wicks

My boat was an argument.
Like all arguments
it leaked when subjected to pressure,
once dragged out of shadows
was unable to endure the corrosions of the sun.

It took some tacking
a modicum of sweat
but rounding the point I could see
the tightly crammed shantytown of options.
A new life perhaps
but little beauty.

The land felt difficult, I could not blame my feet.
There were no fortifications
no customs clerks to wheedle & detain.
This was a potentiality where the greatest prize
was also the meanest.
If you are desperate enough to find us
you belong
forever.
Arrivals here, or anywhere
must gauge the value of their parts.
Will someone buy my arms
my voice my body?

Taking up a borrowed chisel
I began to carve by rote
the rules of this rough living.