non-sleekness

it never stopped being mighty, even as it failed to float

the sludge it war on its face could be cleaned, like a castle surrounded by moat

its galleys were cold ‘neath the dark of that bay; its hour had never more come

what colored the waters before was now grey; its bottles were empty of rum

if only its breaches had been shored up — if only its captain had swallowed hard

That crooked doubloon might still land shine-side up, but now it drinks like a ghost at grave-yard.

the water it reasoned, fellow ships tried to help, but proud was the gun of its motor

and now all left of its preen and its honor, was a sad-tilted mare with sogged odor.

So ask it anew, its ears yet suppress waves, ask it to forgive its weakness

and you’ll yet see a tale of a heart trapped in mail, and a yacht unaware it’s non-sleekness.