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