The Millennial Pedestrian

The Boat

Where will the boat go
when it leaves the little pier?
The lake’s far shore
beckons with casinos, dancing,
heedless cheer.
And there’s a river at that end.
They say no one knows
where that river flows.

The oars are heavy for my mother.
We watch her as she pulls away.

The lake darkens.
The boat grows smaller.
As the sky above her opens up
we see the boat ascending.

Water laps the dock.
It is the smallest sound.
From far across the water comes
faintly, festive music –
accomplished choral singing,
a sweet, consoling cornet.

The glassy ripples left by mother’s oars
spread and intersect all night
until their faint geometries reach every shore.
But of the boat there is no trace.

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 27th, 2006.
It's part of the New Poems category.
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