fight the big guy

truth is I'm too old for drinking here, to old for giving a fuck about the liquor and the young pussy making their plays. I'd rather put a boat to sea. I'd rather put a good boat to a dodgy weather forecast, but the young bloke, my crew, needs to drink, so I sit on my sugar pisswater they call liquor and wait. I wait for the tide, and the open honest sea, while he drinks. I wait, wait for the night to end, for the walk back to the boat, and sometimes, in a small way, I think of her, who tried to make me choose between young quim and a good boat. She should have known. I guess I musn't have loved her, if she was that naive. So I wait, wait and watch, watch the young men  parade their empty untested bodies,  size them up, reckon them weak, reckon them as shadows, gym muscled at best, and if it came to it I'd fight the big guy. He adjusts his pants, figures his size for meaning something. I drink again, dark with it. I'd fight the big guy, if only to feel anything but this. The forecast says we'll leave in two days. I drink again. Fuck the land. Fuck untested men. I drink. Stare at the big guy. Come fight me, you fucking girl. Come see. Come try. He won't. They never do. Fuck the land. Fuck all of it. Bring the sea. Bring death. Bring a story with the words.