Poetry: Boat Trailer Blues

Boat Trailer Blues

November’s a time of drizzle and cold. 

Again, I have waited too long 

to take out the boat, dented and old, 

a job for the stupid but strong.

The boat trailer lies like a sleeping black cur, 

next to the garage in the mud. 

Unwilling to rise, it gives me a sneer, 

its brake lights the color of blood.

My gloves are too thin as I crank up the jack; 

the burrs on the handle cut skin. 

And now I’m aware of a pain in my back, 

the vertebrae twisting like tin.

Settling in for the winter. (Photo by Nancy North)

Three or four whacks with a hammer, 

a handful of stinky brown grease, 

a quick finger-jammer, I swear, and a stammer, 

the hitch is connected with ease.

The half-empty tires are frosty, I see. 

They suck at the mud as they turn. 

In contrast, the bearings no longer turn free; 

they slowly have started to burn.

Three colored wires atangle; 

one light refuses to glow. 

The other one shines, but at a right angle, 

and now it has started to snow.

Exhausted and frozen, I am aware 

that still I am only half done. 

I hope that the next part is better than last year, 

when down the boat ramp I did run.

This is the last time; never again. 

I’d rather be home snug in bed. 

To get all this pleasure out of November, 

I’ll visit my dentist instead.