Her Boathouse Arms


By Carlos Cardona


They call it The Boathouse,
A place in the park where boats are borrowed,
Where rowers arrive to glide a small lake
And pretend they're in Stratford, Dark Lady in tow.

For those of us riders this Sea of Tranquillity,
This idyll, this calmness, this wet meditation holds no water (bottle),
Our Boathouse is light years away from their quiet,
It's booming, it's friendly, it's busy with mapping,
With pumping and fixing, kidding, cajoling,
But mostly it babbles a dream of adventure,
That joining of effort and friendship called "clubride",
That Yoga of self and machine that gives birth to our bliss.

And sometimes, like now, when first I see her,
Some gorgeous lycrad animal, some chamois-shorted,
Crop-topped, muscled, cleated, riding gal,
When desire but not just desire calls me out,
When the unfolding of kindness and intelligence,
Of gentleness, grace, and a desire to learn Ballroom,
Unites to put the key in that You-lock my heart,
Then I wonder if I might spin with One again,
Conjoining to put our mettle to the pedal,
To fly away into the weekend daylight,
To the Garden State of Earthly Delights,
Or the Longing Island of Love,
Back to the only home that matters,
Back to Yoga, Her Boathouse Arms.