CAROL KAVANAGH
I sailed her close to the wind,
trimmed her tight, ran her hard
until I got the best out of her.
After she turned fifty —
a mutiny. Complaints:
insomnia as persistent
as the halyard’s hollow
clang in the dark. Doldrums,
blinding sun, and flashing heat.
Find a port, she said
where we can rest, do repairs,
take on supplies. She warned
of our demise if I didn’t take heed.
And, I didn’t. I pressed her on.