At Anchor; Log of the Argo 4/24/16

There is a breeze

But we do not sail

We are at rest

Bobbing here at our moorage.

For me there is little to do.

Well, I worry about the Captain

But he seems at rest

Mulling the horizon

As if there were to be

A message soon.

He worries from time to time.

Perhaps he fears his future.

Not me, I am well cared for.

Do not think me lazy or idle

And of little purpose.

I lick my captain regularly

Cleaning, dressing his unseen scars.

As First Mate I must anticipate

So I am ever ready with my toy.

He throws; I fetch.

It is a good game.

 

 

I get fleas;

He rubs stinky stuff on me

I am free of them now.

Where do fleas come from?

Like the tides,

Life is a mystery.

 

Tasha, First Mate

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