Creative Writing

A boat house built near the water
With a glass pane glazed into a pine sash
Faced the cracked flooring of a pontoon
That sat in a rut of leaves and muck.

A vinyl window on the door faced the west
And was often speckled with pieces of grass
And painted with fat carp smearing across it
From behind a large maple tree.

The threshold hung below the baseboards
Pressed down from constant use and held by visible nails.
Inside wooden shelves smudged by rusted lures
Carried the smell of fish and plastic worms.

The pontoon was the final cough into a cupped hand
It seeped away through the slits in the earth
Loosened carpet bunching and peeling away
Safely smothered by the humidity that hugged it.

The pontoon was a granite pencil,
Idle and useless, it rotted there next to the boat house
Sluicing water up to feed the seaweed on the shore
And spreading mildew to the rocks that lay in the sand.