Bedding Down
Now at port,
now at starboard,
the streaks of light
lick the sleepers
in their parsimonious slots—
the pair whose shoulders
fill the triangle’s top
while their feet
are inserted into the bow—
the one who’s neatly extended
under the open cockpit
while his head brushes
the drawer of the chart desk.
The weather changes, wind rises;
the boat rocks and dips,
but the sleepers, snug in their berths,
move as one with their floating beds.
Lari Smith