A sausage biscuit wrapped in foil
and a can of Diet Mountain Dew.

I do this in memory of you
seated on the jonboat’s other bench,

one hand nudging the tiller, the other
keeping your drink from tipping over.

Fog hugged the early morning lake,
but I never doubted the compass

in your head. Fish over there, you said,
and I’d cast beyond the visible water.

Something almost always struck.
It was easier to believe

when I wasn’t the one steering.
But now I still point the bow

into that low cloud. Unfolding
the foil on my breakfast, cracking

the can, a trace of vapor rises
from both like some holy ghost.