No pretty women on boats,
The wind unmade the love tangled in his hair,
Absurdity of the sea, he let it drain swiftly to a desert.
The sails laughed at his romanticism,
he could hear the rats whisper about his slowly fading mind,
mock the cracks in his dry and callused palms.
Where could a man drink? Out here among the seagulls and cactus.
The rum cracked your throat and liver, the water was worse.
He leans towards the bow,
watches the swell and curve of the woman hung there,
thinks maybe he can hang himself against her
brittle body to her smooth and wooden frame
kiss her salty cheeks until the buzzards hold his funeral at shore.
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