It covers everything, a glossy January rind
along tires. Sunny days have brought it out,
burned away the ice, left
the calcified tidelines to gloat
on the hoods and sun-warm trunks
of cars queued up along the curb,
parking close as they can get
to each other, to the raised
sidewalk thatís buried
beneath the dirt crust next to the neon-lit
sign for the funeral home.
The body of the boy we knew is still
inside, the cheeks teased
back to cheery life with rouge.
The ice on the canal
the faulty floor through which he descended
blazing on the back of his Arctic Cat
is black as slate
which means itís thin
and boys on the shore
throw aimless stones that yield
ricochets with laser sounds.
The outdoor rink is bare, festooned
with bits of the Canadian flag
fragments of the maple leaf
glistening starlike after storm.