After the divorce the old man and I
cross the lake. We spell each other
at the wheel and listen
to the luff of sails, the slap of water on
the hull, the radio playing call
me Mr. blue. Somehow, then,
or now, I can see so clearly:
This is all we have.
The past is in the swirling wake
behind us. So I hold the wheel lightly
(the boat knows, better than I do)
and watch my old man smoke his pipe
and look for land.
Be sure to sing along