Amber lights intoned and churning batteries are charging, flowing electricity on the dreary docks A man talks to his wife in the rain clutching his cell with pasty hands He'd asked me about the boat earlier how much, does it run well Penta, expensive parts, not mine, never taken her out, no not once Pointless dribble like oily rainbows This man talks to his wife in the rain he rocks with the wakes of the passing boats, churning in a hurt and desolation that is sure to come Night grows thin, blankets of mist and fog roll like warm dough over aluminum, fiberglass, and old wooden boats sinking steadily to curious alien shrimp The Madra Delarosa takes him back after begging and pleading have become empty whispers to an ear that's become all hate and malice Deloarosa's red and green running lights are flicked off. She sways and moans quietly accepting the indifference of the coming morning