Why
the hell
did I ever ever ever ever think
that your little paper boat was built stronger than mine?
Never again will I ever ever ever ever believe
that the stories and photographs printed onto my newspaper will muddle together
while the words on yours will emerge from the pond
intact, unscathed, legible, clear
right where they were placed, right where we left them.
The ink ran, all the letters smeared.

How
could I
have ever ever ever ever expected
to unfold your paper boat
and find the pages free of creases
when together we built our little paper boats
Three summers ago
And have gone back every spring to re-crease our folds?
My newspaper
is crinkled and worn like the well used map
plotting all of our adventures and mishaps.
So why
the hell
did I cry over every single crease
And expect that on you the imperfections cease?