We arrive at the dock ready
to ferry to Nova Scotia.
The next boat, the sign announces,
departs in four hours.
Cars pile up behind us.
Passengers look around in dismay.
Then someone gets out a chessboard. 
People gather around.
We have a tournament.
Share sandwiches.
We forget where we are going.
We pin our June poem to the hut.
We continue on the narrow road
into the interior
in no hurry to board
Charon’s ferry.