If our boat were, say, a dinghy,
a dingy dinghy, or a dory,
an adorable dory—in short,
a rowboat, suitable for rowing,
I wonder would we cleave
the taut surface like scullers
smiling with perfect teeth
for the crew team photo, before
repairing for a decorous drink,
an old-fashioned or Manhattan,
tidily tippling our way to victory,
or would we continue to trawl
this pond in circles, sunburned,
giggling, throwing indigestible
peanuts to indigenous water birds,
knowing we were headed nowhere,
knowing no one cared?