What Spins These Planets?

all these broken men living aboard these old wooden boats tied up chain to anchor with old long ropes making the final connection to sun-stained decks. the old motor runs but hasn't seen a new harbor in years. "she'll go if I need her" he proudly boasts. she boards with reservation as the sun sets. but where else does she have to go at this late hour? maybe he'll set sail and catch her a fish. he has a half bottle of decent scotch and the linens look clean enough for one night. maybe two. it could be worse. summer on the water beats a Friday night in July in a one bedroom in Cleveland. she takes a sip of whatever he poured. she knows what he's thinking but smiles anyway. the attention feels nice. the moon sits above the horizon, out of harms way. the water is a shade of black sailors know means a calm evening. they sip and she laughs at his stories, not because she finds them funny, but because she knows she can.