Complicated

The trawler sidles up to the pier at low tide,
all rust and ropes and tired nets,
a mystery to the outlier like me,
how the work gets done in the dark ocean
Complicated. That is what it is.
Complicated and yet, the work gets done,
much like the work of the heart in old age,
in a body full of rust and ropes of a life built
for one thing and shifting slowly to another,
groaning at the work. Complicated and resistant
to the simplicity you crave, just another boat,
in for repair when what is needed is an overhaul.

About this poem

The picture was taken in Provincetown, Mass. I have no idea what all the machinery does, but it fascinates me. Machinery often does.

Life is too damned complicated, when the important stuff isn’t.

Tom