I was never drawn to the sea,
no Moby Dick in me.
A Midwestern heart,
flat as a field,
married, children.
My house a ship,
our small yard a little sea.
My wife steers our vessel
sailing through the various seasons.
She is the captain of the ship
commands all the decks,
swabs, scullery,
the children
who flee to her in storms,
the income tax,
the broken toilet,
whatever breaches over the bow.
I cut the lawn,
keep the waves at even keel,
the lifeboat mine
to explore for whales
and bring home hardtack,
stop at various harbors
to trade and shoot the breeze
over mugs of ale and other fare.
Over the years, it does not seem fair.
The glory comes to me,
accolades for my exploits
on the hardy main of country roads,
barnacled old town.
Seldom a mention of the ship,
expected to be there,
always docked or launched,
always an open gangplank
for kids, friends, and neighbors.
The ship is ever sailing,
plowing on through
the cornfields of our life.
And never moves,
never moves.
Published in The Write Launch