Catamaran

I loved to lounge between her racy prows

while autohelming off a ritzy coast.

I waved grandly at other sailors’ scows.

The fastest cat afloat, I used to boast.

I loved snuggling in her starboard stern

as lullabies of wavelets lapped her hulls

and peeping out her portholes at the turn

of wind or tide, the calls of morning gulls.

I loved mooring her near a posh resort

for friends flown south with all expenses paid.

I even loved waiting for parts in port—

a broken belt or thrown propeller blade.

Now someone else’s mate unfurls her jib;

a solvent skipper steers her out to sea,

comeuppance for a debtor far too glib

before his cash flow proved illusory.

I gave my love more wisely as a lad—

a modest little skiff with gaff-rigged sail—

but I was not content with what I had

so now I watch my pretty cat turn tail.

Alan Sullivan

© ____; originally printed in Light.  Reprinted
by permission of the author.