THE BINGHAMTON

In that emptying lot
we traded early-aught
war stories, compared scars—
waving our arms, waiting
for life rafts. You’d smoke, I’d
bounce and worry
about sweat stains. We
watched that century-old
ferryboat fail, fill
with water, lose its bow.
And even though
your paint was
not peeling, I see it was
you who was
the sinking ship.