A Tour

It seemed like they crawled out of the Great Lake, the rocks
tumbling over until fit-- strong, secure. The metal rails, a rusted glue
like the gold trim on my Great-Grandmother's saucers, balanced
lightly, as if prepared to escape at the threat of wind. The train you paid
to take us pushed past the hanging brush scratching the tin roof.
“Look,” you said to me, holding our bagged lunch as it rested
on the empty seat, “that's the ship your Grandpa was on two years
ago, before your mother left. The gray paint’s turned to rust.”