He lodged for six days.
It was nice to have the company, for a change.
But we both knew
he wasn't here for vacation.
After all, Minnesota in fall is not leisure material.

The kid stank, hard.
Like old bacon. Or rotting sausage.
Maybe he had a pork chop fetish - though,
he didn't eat much last night.

21, in the late sixties.
Old enough to drink
or die.
I knew why he was here.
I could see it in his eyes. They were soft. Afraid,
afraid of what lay before him.
I could see the uniforms, the guns, the folded flags.
I could see the War.
But him,

all he could see was the border.

I took him out, first of October
out on the Rainy River.
His extra weight sunk my Evinrude
a little deeper into the water than normal.
Poor engine had to chug hard.

We approached the buoys marking the edge.
I cut the engine 20 yards from Canada.
I wanted him to jump.
But I wouldn't say anything.
81 years hadn’t robbed me of wits.
His moral paralysis added drops to the rushing river as
he gripped the edge,
knuckles white, muscles tense, rising
leaning over
poised
ready -

I thought, for sure, he’d go.

But he sat back down. Defeated,
defeated by the chains that bound him.

I said not a word, humming “Yankee Doodle” softly as
his tears broke, openly this time.
Minutes passed, maybe hours.
Stars heralded the coming of night.

Holding a torch for light,
I started the resilient engine,
pulled up my fishing rod,
and turned back to the States.