Three sailboats tottered out beyond the reeds.
They seemed to bob there randomly;
whatever anchored them we couldn’t see.
Frequent, defiant shouts of kids at play
arose, maybe a sailboat-length away,
outside our reed-walled vision.
The others rested at the summer house,
a group of friends, and her. I knew
there was a reason we alone, we two,
her lover and her ex, sat on that pier,
felt sure the moment’s meaning would grow clear
as twilight darkened round us.
The lake’s bright swath of moonlight shimmered toward
our wooden edge. A rowboat docked
behind us in the reeds rose up and knocked
unrhythmically. We watched the stars. The air
at last had cooled a bit, at least out there
between the walls of reeds.
Max Gutmann has contributed to dozens of publications including New Statesman, Able Muse, Green Hills Literary Lantern, and Cricket. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. and have been well-reviewed (see maxgutmann.com). His book There Was a Young Girl from Verona sold several copies.