DRY-DOCKED by Howard Feigenbaum

Where is the man who fished the sea,
The man who flung his net over throbbing swells,
harvesting Neptune’s fruit?
The sun no longer casts his shadow on the pier.

His vessel lies dry-docked on the harbor shore,
The hull filled with rainwater,
Lines wandering in disarray,
Never again to feel the Master's touch.

A life is spent, the years are gone,
Strength and spirit traded for his sustenance,
He knew in one moment he could no longer pull the oar or hoist the sail.
The time had come to accept the ebbing tide.