Dave Bonta's short poem plays on the phrase "shipping news" and turns it into something sour and a little rueful. The speaker suggests that all the news should be loaded onto the same ship as "our knavery and dissimulation," as if reporting and human dishonesty were the same cargo. It reads as a quiet judgment on how information gets handed to us: tangled up with trickery and pretence.
The second part shifts to a gentler, stranger picture. Ships are compared to "unkissed bodies" that huddle together at night and "take time to rust." The image feels lonely and tender at once, suggesting things that wait, close but untouched, slowly wearing down. The poem doesn't say outright how the speaker feels, but the mood is wry, weary, and wistful. Judging by the imagery, there's a sense that both news and people are left to drift or decay, and that honesty and intimacy are in short supply.