a lot of the same actors on the boat.

the same threesome as the last ride.

the captain in the kitchen and the sailor

with his classic cars,

button up shirt.

the cross legged word searcher

the breast pocket, over filled.

surfers in sweatpants and the woman

with those pursed lips,

walking in circles with her chest high,

dark sunglasses.

the same actors on the boat,

all with their roles so perfectly cast,

their dialogue practiced and casual.

making my ride all the more real,

giving me reason to stare,

they're acting out how i feel.

bullshitters sitting on the edge of someones last thread of compassion,

the whistle steams and the lies are swatted like flies from the air.

like drawn curtains a red face shows that the play has ended.

the vultures starve for death.