I don't know anything about boats, 
But the fisherman told me to buy one. 
He's a man who used to be happy, 
Swimming between homes,
His body catching waves instead of
Silver fish that taste like blood. 

He's an old photograph,
And so we trust him
Out of sadness and pity, 
We trust the fisherman when 
He tells us to buy a boat and 
Learn to navigate the world
Through a machine. 

I don't know anything about boats, 
Except that I need one to stay afloat. 

One day, I visit the fisherman and tell him
of my achievement. 
The sky is no longer blue,
And our waters mimic its gray hue. 
"I bought a boat," I say, pointing to the horizon.
"What's next?"
His gaze dips beneath the surface. 
"I don't remember," he says.
He's lost his way. 
He looks up at the sky and takes a bite.
With sky in his mouth, he speaks:
"We live on islands surrounded by concrete seas, 
I am no fisherman, I only ever wanted to catch leaves.
Someone has taken our land
And paved it up and down
I can't cross the street 
Without worrying for boats and their sound."

His shoulders dip and I say goodbye. 
I wake up the next day and eat the sky. 

This poem was inspired by a conversation. "We live on islands surrounded by concrete seas" belongs to the man I love. I find it terribly sad that I do not live in a walk-able city. It feels like true independence comes with the ownership of a car. Cities were not built for us; they were built for cars and machines. I don't know anything about cars, but the world told me to buy one.