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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

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