I sail the schooner Del Mar
My bed is the bridge
The carpet, the sea

I no longer have plastic sailors hoisting sails from the folds of my sheets
No longer a spyglass made from a rolled-up page
No longer a brother-boatswain beside me
No longer ten years old

I have a stack of books—maps for life—and bookmarks as compasses
A logbook and the pen from my final exam
A soft quilt and a bowl of walnuts
The ocean is calm today, and I am thirty-two

Despite the passing storms
I remain a sailor 
still