Lake Michigan

by Jeffrey Kingman

Houses at the shore.
People on streets in straight lines
lock themselves in.
Light spring breeze ruffles the flags.
At the beach, a boy’s lost key.

Will I have to live someone else’s life?
He sifts sand between his fingers,
gulps his fear, the boundless
lake gaping at him.
What if it’s no one’s? Hello?

But they’ve all folded up their towels
and gone home, the air too chilly
this late in the day.
He searches till his lips turn blue
and the moon turns white.

Fathers and mothers, snug
in their beds, don’t always remember
who their children are.
When we lose something for good
memories are supposed to be a comfort.

There was a shed in the backyard
for the bicycles, and a key hiding
in an old tin on a shelf.
On the floor, a scattering
of sand someone had wiped off their legs.