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A gibbous moon shone bleakly,
a wan light shedding across the gravel beach,
the last jagged purples of sunset fading
into the dark.
Warm lights and lanterns lit
the bevy of boats,
and now and then
one of them would chuff out to sea.
I built this field stone mansion for Lori,
just six years ago,
but she died a month before
our wedding dry. I went down to the deck,
sat on a bench, and watched my
110 foot yacht "Lori II"
rolling gently at her moorings.
Behind me stretched the den,
my favorite room,
with its walls of yachting regalia,
banners, caps, charts, models,
a picture gallery of photos and oils,
a mounted tarpon.
A soft breeze sneaked in from the bay,
swishing the palms
and cooling my bare feet.
I wondered, gazing at the fading
name of "Lori", watching the first stars
poke out of the darkening sky,
was my life really worth it,
in view of the losses I had made.
Oh, I had money enough and then some,
I had yachting acquaintances,
a profession, more a sport,
to drive me, and give me some
semblance of purpose, but here I sat,
wondering all the same.
I had no family,
few friends of consequence,
but of course life was worthwhile:
look at my trophy case,
filled to running over,
my walls full of ribbons
and the fine yachts I'd skippered,
But where was I, really,
with this huge empty house,
talk to the gardener for conversation,
a talent for sailing,
and a gift for music
that whiled away the empty stretches,
no matter which instrument I chose to play.
I watch the lights on the boats
as they slowly wink out,
and the gibbous moon slips behind a cloud.
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