Drydocks
︎︎︎ Paul Franz
︎ Sept 9, 2026
This spring day, autumnal
still with its rotted leaves:
pavement an interlace of bricks the color of meat and spoiled meat;
that garbage bag the wind pulled inside-out,
flapping from the can’s rim, like a spent condom, flagging...
so little a thing, to live, when it comes down to it.
The drydock that a month ago, dehiscent,
beckoned today is
brimful, as if calling away from tasks,
as if nothing were left undone.
still with its rotted leaves:
pavement an interlace of bricks the color of meat and spoiled meat;
that garbage bag the wind pulled inside-out,
flapping from the can’s rim, like a spent condom, flagging...
so little a thing, to live, when it comes down to it.
The drydock that a month ago, dehiscent,
beckoned today is
brimful, as if calling away from tasks,
as if nothing were left undone.