I had walked, with my son,
along the pier to where we stopped
for it struck me – odd
the ashen gray deck post hacked
with incised slices and slashes
and scratches – woebegone scars:
the names of some of the people
who had paused, to carve 'proof'
that they existed ... once ...
and that they had passed this way
gouged in timber and left: it seemed
so that ragged 'y' and rakish 'c'
would prevail, well after death
not terribly clever, I thought –
wood rots – as I cast my own wish
and, picking up a pebble from
the pier boards I stood upon ...
I tossed it, as far as I could
out into the river – where –
it plopped down to its new home
on the riverbed
we both smiled, then, as we strolled away
knowing there was something left behind:
because ... I put it there