Everything is worn.
Ropes are frayed.
Paint is rusted.
Pipes rusted even more.
Plates of steel are pitted.
The winch groans.
On the hull, Barnacles feast.
The men who work the boat are worn as well.
craigy wrinkles, harsh skin, calloused hands.
Clothes are faded from the sun.
Wiry muscles under their sleeves.
They are aged beyond their years.
And yet each day, they work.
Each day they face the sea,
no matter it’s mood, calm or madness,
and each day bring back the day’s harvest,
worse for wear,
but far more durable
than you would believe
looking at the mere rust.
About this poem
About the fishermen at little harbors all up and down the New England Coast. About many of us in the half broken, somehow still fully functional lives we live.