The Winslow Homer that hangs
Askew in my boss's office
Is my only solace.
My hands bear no marks
From my work and my back
Feels no strain from pulling oars,
But I envy the Fisherman
The ocean spray that mists
His face as the waves lap
Against the side of his boat.
He rows into ominous storm clouds
Wet. Lonesome. Tired.
But I would trade my lot for his
And row away from the reality that binds me.
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