at sea

his hands
are still curled from
the cold,
from dragging in
the heavy nets
of fish
and crab,
the wet cold slabs
alive,
some staying
for food, for sale,
some too small,
going back over
the side.
his face is red,
his blue eyes
squint even without
the sun.
he wets his lips,
turns the ship towards
home.
his hands
curled around the wheel.
what else is there
to do,
or know.