Agenda

It’s nearly dark and the dishes are drying in the rack.
We sit with a bottle of Cantanac, my mother and I,

and instead of all the things I imagine I should say,
matters I often think of at my desk in London,

we talk of the U.S., and all the dams we’ve ever seen.
Mission, Blue Hollow, Deadwood, Hells Canyon.

There are lines to be drawn on the trips that we made,
together, apart, when he was there, after he died, but no.

We’re not tempted to guide like that and I don’t feel
the need to boss things around. We simply let things flow

as they please, agreeing that we’ve been around.
Barron River, Greyson Lake, Swift River, St. Cloud.

It’s well past midnight and into tomorrow when we finish
and climb the stairs, empty for having covered so much.