We built a boat today, wooden
and without a power motor.
Rudders, transoms, and hulls,
father drew dimensions for us.
And we made it with a wheel
of cedar and steel handholds.
Stern to bow, hull to mast, it rises
like wakes in naval attire.
It is better than us, our ground
of pavement and cracking driveway.
Slingshots, slides, inflatable pools
fill cave in here, like sealant.
Lounges, mattresses, mothballed
pillows, all stuff our land cancer.
Radials, transmissions, oils,
sparks, they plug in ages, bankrupt.
So we seal our past, sails
hoisted, naming it The Away.
Andrew Jarvis is the author of The Strait, Landslide, and Blood Moon. His poems have appeared in Cottonwood, Measure, Bombay Gin, and others. He holds high honors from the Nautilus, INDIE Book of the Year, and NextGen Indie Book Awards.