Marina

when i wander through the Shipyards

in the gentle grasp of new morning fog

and look up the steep sides of the boats,

lined up like ants,

when i taste rain rearing up against the sky

and begin to count its fingers on my skin

and whisper hellos to the new ships in port like they’re

long-lost friends turned tourist,

i see my father and his work,

his hands as rough as the gravel roads

i turn into the full ocean breeze

and remember ropes and fiberglass and

laughing.