I think some days that my porch is a ship,

the wind flapping the flowers,

chilling me,

blowing my hat off

into the vast green sea.

Sometimes I am on deck,

watching the sun set,

and I hear the cries of the gulls,

we are so many miles from our destination,

but always moving, always moving,

in the hands of a captain

sailing straight down the big black lane.

I think the porch is my ship, if I close my eyes,

I can hear the big waves crashing against the side.