At the Dock at Dusk

The rowboats are all tucked in
to their notches, tied.
The paddles have been stowed
in the gear house,
the orange vests, too.
The boats tug gently at their tethers,
as though testing what they already know.
They're tied and a little glad of it.

They are two yards' worth of walking on water,
tricky, tippy walking, but walking.
They bump the dock, a quiet knock.
Empty, they are still flotation,
still doing what they do,
drawing an inch and a half of water
in a prolonged kiss,
the wide mouth of them on the water's give.
Buoyancy, Lord Buoyancy, your slender kingdom
does not sleep.

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Copyright © 2011 Michael Chitwood All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission