Yard Sale of Thoughts

The nets are set;
the anchor hoist:
dinner must be slaved.

But all is fast forgotten 
when we uncork, 
raise glasses to 
the sentinels of Hanoi Bay.

Why mourn our losses,
wrong turns and tosses
like the downtrodden waves?

With bubbly uncertainty 
and three sharp cheers, 
"Hip hip hooray,"
we toast our time 
aboard life's vessel,
forever naive knaves.

For what was clean, now rotten;
the violent protrusion
of a bucket list forgotten,
the grind of engine
without any gain.

What flits by the windowsill
tugboat moored, daft and still,
the helm long ago abandoned
between the grandfather hills.

Has it pushed its last freight?

"What's your best advice?"
My daughter asks. 
"Not something common place." 

"Forget not the ficus,"
I say, but no one will hear.
We've made one more rotation,
and the dance floor draws near.

We're happy to take a spin;
let someone else steer.

Where once there was make-believe,
a spotlight on an empty stage.
Word form blisters,
chase the hummingbirds away.
Who will dare to fill the 
white sail of tomorrow's empty page?

With a hush,
the captain's Adam's apple proclaims:
what is yet to come 
we can float; happiness is
not some island remote,
but you've taken my hand,
your in a rush, and
I blush
from the thought of us, 
and  the new year's first dawn
with its fast approaching flames.

©K.F.Hartless2025

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