The odds suggested it would never sail
and carry the plans drafted on the hard,
but against lightning, hurricanes and hail,
it proved itself deserving of regard.
Yes, its hull leaks and the rudder is kinked,
and spittle keeps blowing through the porthole,
but just when you think it’s about to sink,
the gunnels lift and it regains control.
Days were wasted, I’m ashamed to admit,
wishing I could trade in its guiding keel,
and I look back upon that with regret
because it never failed to right my heel.
Oh, there were nights, see, so hauntingly black,
you’d think they would never come to an end,
but then horizon’s light would start to crack
and I was able to proceed again.
And even though its parts can’t be replaced,
and its core is broken, battered, and bent,
the sail could trim, and the hull would turn face,
leading me slowly back to where I’m meant.
So now I accept its humble design,
this junker, with its cursèd luck and faults.
Turns out it’s the only one of its kind,
and there’s no alternative worth its salt.
— ❧ —