In Which I Whistle And Scratch A Backstay Just A Bit

My sails are hanging limp, empty, I guess.

I drift in doldrums I have never known

Were on this map. I really must confess:

Sometimes it sucks to be here on my own.

My schedule's changed; a one-day difference

Should not affect me so - I'm at a loss

To find another cause for this real sense

Of stasis, though. Oh, soon, something must cross

My path to wake and stir me. Once, of old

Did sailors whistle, scratch backstays to bring

The wind that moves them onward, I am told;

A superstition to which I might cling

Were I not where I am. Wyoming wind

Is worse than the ennui by which I'm pinned.