He and I are whittling wooden boats –
and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing –
I’m a city boy and know how to drink alcohol at the pub
and can shoot pool balls into the pockets like a motherfucking all-star
He tells me I swear too much
He and I are whittling wooden boats –
sitting on a just-barely-out-of-town dock by a lake –
or a crik, or a stream (or some body of water I know little about)
We go for a short walk (to stretch the legs)
“What are you doing?”, I ask him –
as I watch him pick a flower-thing off a bush, then pull on the stem and then watch him put it into his mouth.
“It’s, honeysuckle”, he laughs –
and I don’t know what that is and don’t want to seem ignorant
“Maybe we’ll see fireflies”, I say randomly
“I reckon you mean lighnin’ bugs”, he says with a coy smile
And I wonder if I should tell him I know what a hootenanny is –
I saw a YouTube video on it once
It involves a fiddler and a barn and stacks of hay –
And a bunch of poorly dressed drunk people moving about and having fun -
and that’s all I know about it
We’re back at the dock - he and I are whittling wooden boats –
and mine looks more like a potato than a boat
“Nice work, handsome”, he tells me – and I blush
We sit on the isolated dock by the crik
He shows me how to pull the stem from the flower-thing – from the honeysuckle – and I totally don’t get it
Then - we release our wooden boats –
My wooden boat topples over, like a drunken man or like a potato in water –
while his floats and moves down the crik – and it keeps going
And – suddenly – or, just for a moment – I get it
The honeysuckle in my mouth tastes sweet –
and I’m cheering on his wooden boat
He picks up my wooden boat from out of the water –
it landed between two rocks in the crik when it toppled over
“I think it’s beautiful”, he tells me
And it still totally looks more like a potato than a boat
“May I keep it?”, he asks – and I tell him yes
I taste the sweetness of honeysuckle again, willingly – and listen (gently) to the soothing sounds of the crik
as he and I lay next to each other, silently on the dock –
I listen to the sounds of the birds being birds – and see those who fly, fly above
- and I don’t yet know what any of this means –
but something tells me this is important
Photo: Jimmy Broccoli
