The man in the purple boat
has yet to unfurl his sails.
We see him every morning , dock-
side on a chair, at the
marina across the road,
talking to all the anglers
about “the big one”—
which never got
away, though his lonely
bit of evidence
is a sunshine-faded
Polaroid
from nineteen
seventy-six.
We surmise
the man’s a fraud, hobbling along
the deck when folks are
watching , clearing his throat
in need of a Fisherman’s
Friend, that his pocket
sprouts its vessel and diagonal
stripes;
that the faithful cap he wears
is just a Dollarama knockoff, of
Captain bloody High Liner,
believing the closest
he gets to a catch are simply
breaded sticks of Haddock—
baking at 425.
I bet that
he gets seasick
from the sprinklers
on the lawn, just beyond
the perimeter gates,
their bars of vertical
black that keep us inter-
lopers away, rarely near
to ask him for a ride,
seldom within his earshot
of our snickers,
assuming he’s never
been seen in shorts
because we’d know
he doesn’t limp
from a wooden
peg ;
that what dangles
in his mouth
is just a Popeye
Cigarette,
astonished
that he doesn’t
sport a parrot
on his shoulder—
from Gotta Getta Gund;
our ignorance
of the fact
his purple boat
had a maiden
voyage,
before its protracted
mooring:
a loveseat
behind the wheel,
a woman’s scripted
name along the hull
(long-since painted over
with a coat from Sherwin-
Williams);
that he could validly
wear a patch
beside his nose, replacing
the glassy eye he somehow lost
in the deep of the
lake, flailing his arms and
legs while trying
frantically to save her.
Andreas Gripp
October 24, 2024
RF Image
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