Humming

In the morning there are

three boats, one of them is humming

Hm hm hm hm hm. I like to listen to it

Because I know that it is going somewhere,

it is going somewhere soon.

This boat is blue but at the water line the blue

is itchy with silver streaks where it was

scratched by berth.

When it began, it was clean but now it is

dirty with time, dirty with growth;

silvery scum of moving.

In the morning, the boat is humming

and sometimes I hear her from home and

sometimes only when I stand at the gray gate

of the port. The other two are still silent.

I am waiting to be let in. I am waiting to be

part. When will they open the gate?

When will I jump the fence?

Sometimes, my humming blends in,

and sometimes my humming is louder.