shy-joe
she was i think now that i look for it a Sanibel 18 singlemast keelboat fiberglass mainly with some
wood trim, it was his dad’s (real dad, not Jack, who married grandma later) which must’ve
started his whole thing with boats being before his bornagain dead-horse beach (1) baptism,
when a maritime photographer working out of rented darkroom developed greymatted
prints of moored sloops in fog, dinghies and motif number 1 is a red barn (2) in rockport
which namesake Joe paints—frame within frame, and as he gives grace over triscuits I say
my own that he might take up lens again
of the Joe i remember a little black compass set in a sphere with the hinged upanddown bezel, dad
thin back then and still with the full beard getting bit bloody by lugworms to spear on
dropline hooks for us around the twinkling mobile of weights never even going anywhere (3)
but staying by bouy catching harborskate and eating pbj in our littlekid flophats, twas
summer and every-other weekend and tuesday nights as prescribed by the divorce, which
is not enough but more than we got from not-Jack with whom there were only memories
of waiting, memories and the boat
the Joe was gone before i could put a thought stronger than the compass to her and i never met the
namesake painter, of not-Jack there is still nothing, not even the boat, for even before beach
baptism the photographer was wringing himself empty without even knowing the Spirit
that would assume the void—to another spirit he sailed a poor sloop a weekstime down the
coast thinking maybe possibly improbably of some exchange for all the waiting which
maybe thanks to him, we avoided and in a nameless gray inflatable instead caught skates
while in a hurricane, the Shy-Joe sank off the coast of florida. (4)
1 42.533566, -70.873991
2 42.659334, -70.614838
3 42.544157, -70.867338
4 26.588086, -80.035271