Cause of death: stomach cancer Or at least that’s what the doctor said, and so we gathered Over ham sandwiches and tater tot hot dish and tepid coffee Hushed tones through thin, cracked lips in a dimly lit Lutheran church basement, A Celebration of Life. Mourning is something that is done in private. Hanging just below the mineral fiber substrate ceiling A collective, silent knowledge that cancer was not the cause but a comorbidity Of the knotted ball of twine soaked in cheap beer and whiskey Every grievance swallowed at the kitchen table, every dream not pursued Every subzero night spent shoveling the driveway for the neighbor out of town Every “It wouldn’t be so bad, if it wasn’t for the wind” Every heavy exhale against a frosted windshield Every “Well… isn’t that interesting” and “Well… we really should get going” followed by forty-five minutes spent standing in the doorway Every deflection of praise, another strand added to the densely woven tumor and shoved further down “It could always be worse” And “Just gotta keep moving” And then one day we die And between bites of ham sandwiches In a Lutheran church basement All we can muster is “He was a good man. Always offered to help Shovel our driveway”

I fell asleep to waves gently fading into the shore and awoke to the blaring cacophony of traffic. The lake had paved itself over, trapping pontoons in permanent gridlock. The haunting wail of a loon stretched into a distant police siren. Birch bark peeled back to reveal promotional posters and the stenciled POST NO BILLS. Great white pines shot upward, needles melting into swaying towers of steel. The grackles developed crude Italian-American accents. Much to the annoyance of the men at the billiards table, a subway station appeared beneath the dive bar on the southern shore. A brawl broke out. The house rules are unclear on who pays who when a subterranean transit system interrupts a game of nine-ball. Schools of walleye pushed through the turnstile and onto the train. I tossed a line through the grate and swallowed a mouthful of exhaust.

The gas station The bar The bar The bar The bar The parking lots The roads in between Some of them have been paved In recent years