Mark
The lake was in the middle
of the woods, ringed by maples
with buckets set in to trap
the sap trickling in spring.
My dad made boats out of newspaper,
folded over and over and over in a way
I could never follow and then coated
with shoe spray to keep them afloat.
We raced to see whose boat
could float the farthest, like
a mini regatta in the woods, our
leaf flags flapping in the breeze.
He said the boats would sail
all summer long, bumping
into canoes and strange fish
long after we’d disappeared,
And he’d enjoy seeing them in his head
as he zoomed down the gray highway
to the airport, surrounded by nothing
but concrete and cars and smog.
It made me mad that the boats
didn’t come back, but he said
it was always good to leave your mark:
I suppose I am his.