Rebecca Levine

Boathouse

We go in for shelter from the boiling hot sun outside.
A small, run-down, wooden shack with a garage door as its entrance.
Life jackets hang all around, orange for the young kids, darker colors for the rest.
Sails hang on the wall outside.

Inside, the breeze from the lake cools us down.
We sit at the square table with hundreds of names carved into it,
Listening to the waves crash on the shore.

There is often an organized chaos in the shack.
People continuously shuffle in and out,
Never a moment of peace.
Sounds of whistles, the radio and feet on the dock.

It is the place we come to relax, cool off,
And start our intense game of Kite.




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