April 8th

he sleeps in the scrapings and splinters
from his skeleton boat
in the basement

his boat in the basement
the weak crashing of the old tv
his nose brushes bowed wood as his arms
stretch at the huge curved spine

he'll have to move the house
before he moves the boat
like him, it won't go up the stairs

notching thin beams
and sitting in the ribs
he pulses
thinking of ocean salt, the quick marine air

his high tight hair
and the trench of his face
dog tags tapping planks

knock back the bourbon
it's gone sour with all that sawdust
you're the reason it's called a rib cage