There once was an old man with a red canoe,
When hurting, he took himself and his boat out lacking a crew.
He took his pains out on the water and into his journal,
But made the mistake of considering them eternal.
In late July he found himself down and decided to get lost,
he pushed his boat out further and further, not thinking of the cost.
Devoured by his troubles, he didn’t realize there was no sight of land,
He sat curled up without a companion or compass on hand.
He never looked around but just sulked in heat and desolation,
When worrying, he didn’t let a thing break his concentration.
The man then noticed that he had been out for four days,
It was the thirst of his body that shook him out of his haze.
By the time he had realized what he had done,
He had already begun to feel the beating of the sun.
All the vitality in his body had dried,
And there was not a tear’s worth of water left to be cried.
The salt of the ocean had extracted everything,
Even the finger fat that held his wedding ring.
The lines drawn in his hands became deeper,
As he looked to God to become his next keeper.
The wrinkles around his stale eyes became red,
As if to warn about his sickening head.
Apollo had been silently drying him up,
He reached for his knapsack but had no use for his cup.
Plato said: “And at last he will be able to see the sun.”
I say only despair for the worrier can be won.
The planks of his canoe began to crack,
And he sank with it until the ocean turned black.