It was an artificial pond, with no
soft grass dissolved by water; concrete walls
and tended trees with leaves like waxwork toys
made space for weekend rowing. Strollers ringed
the lake and children pranced and played at war.

We struggled with the oars that nibbled knuckles,
hardly moving, caught midstream. Behind
us someone pointed at the bobbing shape
but we ignored it; we did not know death
on Sunday afternoons with breezes blowing

drowned cats closer to us. Floating when
I saw it, tail hanging straight and down, black
and sodden, eyes like wounds, it had twelve flies —
I counted — perched like sailors on a wreck.
I touched a finger to it, pushed a bit,

and watched it bob and sink while mothers hid
their children’s eyes. Even you, realist,
were scared and urged me to the shore. We went;
once there I raised my hand, saluted all
us tiny sailors, and tossed a token

hand of dust upon the afternoon.

I know, not very cheery at all. This took place in the Japanese Gardens in Lima, Peru. They used to have rowboats you could take out on the water there (for all I know, they still do). The Gardens were an amazing oasis of peace in the midst of a bustling and grimy city. I looked for photos on the Net but failed to find any.

Technical note: the poem is actually in blank verse.