He felt at times as if he were still in the Navy,
adrift on the sea, peering down through the vents
the way he used to squint through binoculars
on deck duty, keeping a lookout for objects
of interest. Life in the attic was humdrum.
His motel was a drydocked boat whose guests
endlessly watched television, exchanged
banalites, had sex mainly under the covers
if they had sex at all–and gave him so little
to write about that sometimes he wrote nothing at all.