Tempest Poem by B. Sven Telander

Hours of glue and decals,
with eyes on instructions,
and fingers twisting molded
plastic from flimsy gray
frames;

launch his model fleet
on shelved walls,
a landlocked solid ocean
for an arduously produced
armada.

A mother's rage, the storm,
born of unwashed dishes,
shatter a flotilla that none
of his cementing tears can
repair.

Further shipyard projects
are constructed in wary fear
of an unpredictable maternal
sea.