A ramp led to a pedestrian crossing under the avenue’s heavy traffic. I started heading toward it but a woman redirected me to a small motorboat people could use to cross the canal. I felt somehow responsible for the young recruit who took charge of it—as if I knew he was part of the insurrection and let him to take the job without saying anything. In truth I’d never seen the kid before in my life. My heart sank as we sped off across the water before half the passengers were able to find seats. We hit the quay rather hard—probably did some damage to the boat. One older guy had stuck his hand out, as if to push us away from the dock. Now he was holding his forearm. Someone said he needed to get it x-rayed. The woman in control of the quay looked as if she was about to give the pilot an award for his performance. Instead she gave him a well-deserved upbraiding—as well as a negatively-themed tattoo on his shoulder. I felt like I should be punished as well, if not instead. Thinking about it now, it would’ve made more sense to put the tattoo on his forehead—but just then her boss appeared and asked what was going on. The woman quickly changed her tune, hugged the pilot, and said everything was as it should be. Most of the passengers took off, including the guy with the injured wrist, but a few strode up to the boss and said “Whoa, wait a minute.”

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Gerald Yelle’s books include The Holyoke Diaries, Mark My Word and the New World Order, and Dreaming Alone and with Others. His chapbooks include No Place I Would Rather Be, and A Box of Rooms. He lives in Amherst, Massachusetts and is a member of the Florence Poets Society.

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