Friday, September 4, 2009

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.

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