by MFrostDelaney
   ...after the painting by Guilda Dimi 

I’m left here all alone to watch the clouds 
drift in the blue-sky waning towards the gray, 
unease on shore where water doesn’t lap, 
so still and frigid on my wooden hull. 
This doesn’t feel like June – the air so dull. 
When I was left all by myself, the gap 
between the then and now I can’t relay. 
How long it’s been since chatter of the crowds –
who came to wait and take a seat with me –
has disappeared. The oars no longer speak 
the language of the push and pull, the wet 
that brushed my underside while traveling. 
So when did it all start unraveling? 
Or why, or how? I do not know. And yet 
I feel it is my fault. Is there a leak 
I don’t know how to fix? I can’t be free 
till someone comes and cares, like they all did, 
or seemed to, long before they left and hid.

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