This white boat, propped
and slanted to the side, is the milk bone
to some three legged dog town on the verge
of chasing its tail

That dog limps across the road, down
a lonely drive, over lanky
lanky weeds, to lift its long forgotten knee
against the barn.

The barn itself transparent, as if gutted. It stands
the supine rib cage of fish. Where the scales
fell into the ground as field stone shards,
peeled off in the winter wind.

This town will always resist the winds, push
its bull head against the hull. The relics that made it:
a barn, a white boat, the efforts
born of stubborn resilience.