Amiable

The girls drove that behemoth 

deep into mud, 

releasing one last engine roar.

We rode our “tables,” Jorge’s word for longboards,

down the narrows, 

steeped in ancient lore. 

Marblehead,

that proto-American heritage site,

that idyllic village,

housed our exhilarating, winding chase.

Emerging on seaside hill,

humanity’s widow walk in lace,

where lovely people are laid,

encased.

“She was an amiable wife.” 

Dead in 1654.

A crescent moon doesn’t fill the night sky much,

yet her poem prompts a soul to soar.

Michael Carney