When I was a kid taken to the best end of the lake,
the raked gravel of someone's circular drive
—always rustling evenly under the tires
with a hushed crunch—served notice, served privilege;
distant, esteemed. Maybe an Ordway's place,
or the leaf-free drive and lawns of Southways,
long and green in shade near private waters
where a dog or two dozed on a dock, where my father
inched the car forward to make his delivery
as the low drum roll of pebbles decorously jostling
beneath us was heard behind the great
front door by someone waiting, or on guard.
Stephen Sandy
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