On those empty days
in Rhode Island
when the rain
made the beach dull, I'd beg
to be taken to watch
the ocean's sample
in the aquarium's
windowed water,
where fishes moved
with their robot grin.
There's my father,
bored. I'd ask him:
Why? Do they think?
Aren't they bored just swimming around
in that huge modern tank?
Then we'd go see
the old colonial town,
with the old-fashioned ships
from Britain when Britain
included New Haven
before anyone knew
they were setting the table
for an American commodore
who probably had a home in Devon
or maybe a manor
on the Ayrshire shore.
But Scotland didn't matter
when Dad suggested ice cream.
I'd smile but
couldn't accept the offer.
'I'll get fat if I eat it, won't I?'
His head would do
the shake I still see yet.
And he'd get the ice cream
and eat it all the same.
There is a small cottage
a dairy in my brain
that alights there
to return here
forever beside
a different glade,
another river's side.
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