The go-boat

I'm building a boat, a go boat--

where I'm going I do not know.

The main thing is to climb in and row.

There'll be trees along the river banks

and light will seep through their leaves,

washing out parts of my limbs,

so I'll look like a puzzle that isn't

all the way filled in. Noonday,

I'll pull my boat up to dry land,

unwrap one of the sandwiches

I've packed and ponder the life

I just left--the timeclocks and tasks,

the laundry and freeways, the briefcase

and nylon stockings. None of it will make sense.

But neither does this boat, this go-boat,

this boat I nickname, I don't know boat.

Afternoons, my belly full of bread and cheese,

the only voice in my ear is an oar--

as it splashes and digs through the water,

to places unknown.