2/17/2020 – hook

I have studied you through the portholes of solitude. You stand alone in a houseboat built for four. Its panels are loose, and your hands are fists. When you sleep, I tiptoe through and tap cabin walls for sturdy beams, looking for some place to drive a nail — but nothing taps back. I think we are at sea, heeling port then starboard then port again, and the waves make me sick. You sink 20 leagues deep, and all I have is stick and string. I do not even have a hook.