Boat House

My boat house
A place covered in old cream paint
And bordered with faded red
Peeling and chipping through the years.
Inside an old rustic boat sits
Coated in rust and silvery metal.

The flooring was bare concrete
Rough and dirty
The walls were old and wooden
Rotting and decaying.
Littered with cobwebs and
Night crawlers.

The cement supports
Tumbling into the lake
Like a glacier.
Slow and steady
Little by little creeping
Out of existence.

When my dad saw it;
Everything changed.
He brought in his crew of workers
Who catered to his every idea
With big trucks filled with supplies
Piling in to our driveway.












They lathered on fresh salmon colored paint
With green highlights
And a dash of bright cream around the edges.
They tore out the floor and
Stripped down the walls
Took out the rusty metal boat.

They added smooth new walls
That they added a texture to.
And made a new floor
This time a wooden one
Then rubbed a stain
All the way through the interior.

They added a new sink
And small fridge
And when they were done they
Left us alone with this new masterpiece.
The only thing that remained
From the old boathouse was the roof.

The roof was left
As a reminder of the old boathouse.
What was there
And what is here now.
With loose nails hanging from the ceiling
And the smell of slow rot slipping down.

But this is no longer
The old boathouse.
This one is perfect.
We rebuilt most of it
And use it now more than ever.
But sometimes I like to think about the old one.