Eternity

Today is Sunday, and so the boat
the little blue one, whose paint
started chipping long ago-
pushes off from the rickety pier
to rest, as always,
In the middle of the lake.
And the man in the boat
doesn't know his age
And each second robs him
of an image, maybe a dream
but he doesn't mind.
Without the woman
they're just pages and pages
of empty memory.
Like the body he buried today
Gnarled hands around her waist
Red roses and daisies
On their very first date
Soda pop syrup
And, as always,
That first passionate embrace
The one where he learned
exactly how her mouth tastes
-like sugar cookies, and soap.
And he wonders
If these things sink
or surround him
If the little blue boat-
the one whose paint
started chipping long ago
is buoyed by memories
Because, after all,
The boat is called Hope
The same as when
his hands held his hat
and the ground held his knee
and a ring burned his pocket.
Such monumentous, trivial things
That build a life.
And end one
-like the rhythm of an old heart
in the chest he knew so well-
And the old man closes his hands
over his own traitorous beat
that refused to stop when hers did
and he sighs off to sleep.
Because today is sunday, and there are different ways to be buried