Ship canal trail, early spring

Were coin no thing
Were days as dreamlike, always
As days sometimes seem
Were rhyme, reason, impulse, one:
I’d go boating.

I’d stand tall in the prow, lithe, sun-browned
Blue and white cotton blowing about,
Eating ice cream, warm anyway.

I’d be ready at cone’s drop
To launch with child’s vigor into waves,
Run rat-like up the mast

Or with proper wholesome hunger
To fill my mouth with crisp-skinned fish,
Cold champagne, good bread.

Were coin no thing,
Were days as dreamlike always,
As days sometimes seem
I’d love all things the same.

boating

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