By RAHN ADAMS
In the years we lived on the coast, / we knew a man who called his fears, / his failures, his trials, his tears / all by the very same name — “boat trouble.”
He was a guy who worked on land, / so we couldn’t help but wonder why / when he stubbed his toe or got poked in the eye, / “boat trouble” was to blame.
Even when he didn’t lose his head, / he’d wave his hands like a mime, / and the redness in his neck would climb / up to his stubbled double chin.
“What’s the matter?” we would ask; / and he’d glare at us like a mad hatter, / though he was shorter and fatter, / and he’d always say those two words.
“Boat trouble” was the standard reply / when his reputation was on the bubble; / he kept his ego from turning to rubble / by never having to say why.