It was a small sloop the bearded man, who
stood in as a grandfather substitute,
trailered over to the house one mid-May.
Refinish, repaint the craft someday, and
he’d pay me something for the sanded task.
I had to chip and scrape old wear away.
Azul to weathered teak to seasoned green.
There’s a thick-shelled barnacle which, unseen,
will cling to the bottom of any barque
that lingers too long in the Chesapeake—
the steadiness it seeks, sucked to vessel
hulls, deep below the diving scope of gulls.
About the Poet
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. A fan of meter and rhyme, she loves lines that hypnotize the reader with their sound. She believes in densely packed poems, preferring them to be mouthful when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves waterside living. She currently resides in Edgewater, Maryland. Her works have been published in Vita Brevis, Spillwords Press, and Uppagus Magazine.