Point of View

The old man sits on a bench in the late afternoon sun his walker nearby, his little dog, nearer Sunday, the last day of summer they watch the line up of trucks coming to retrieve their boats from the water as the sun crawls towards the sea Like the tide, the same people who lined up in the morning to launch their boats, now line up in the afternoon to retrieve them Someone says to the old man, they must truly love their boats The old man replies, once, I loved my boat I remember being on the water in the sun, breathing the sea air, feeling the wind and the spray of the water on my face, feeling the force of the waves, the pull on the heart to the open sea Feeling the anticipation of the day, the chance of it all, the good and the bad; dry feet or wet clothes, an empty net, or a full belly And the freedom Oh, the freedom I haven't been on a boat in so long, that I can't even remember when it was, son I miss it so, but I'm happy just that I loved it once