In that kitchen in the cabin
I peered through lace curtains
Pointing to the shore
Of the lake with the Indian name
Which forbade the sound of motors
But never dogs
Who paddled after balls
Pitched by boys
Who laughed at boats
Men tried to row
Their tangled fishing lines
Coming up empty
In that kitchen where Mom fried sandwiches
Thick with Swiss and fleshy bacon
In tight silver squares
Our wicker hamper held
Rattling root beer in real glass bottles
We’d swig without straws
Barbecue chips leaking
Their spices onto our fingers
Wet with spit
Tips and nails sucked
Then wiped on jeans
Mudded and grass-soaked
Napkins forgotten on the sill
Blown to the wide-beamed floor
Scapped up in a game she invented
For the two of us in that kitchen
Where the windows are broken now
By boys, I suppose
Rocks cast like lures
Cracking surface
After surface
After dark
Feral cats
Hunt for scraps
Sheltered here from the rip
Of outboard motors