We sit and stare-
her at this dusty boat room,
glasstop tables on paisley rugs,
chipped crown molding
and faded fabric chairs.
I at the murk of the river,
the trees gripping slipping river banks
and smooth tumbled stones.
Thin plexiglass pane between us.
Which is better-
life behind glass,
in stray shards of mirror,
caught in scattered glimpses of silver,
or sitting here,
drawn along with an endless current,
anchored in the heavy solidity of now?