The Scratchy Strap

It’s been at the bottom of the closet

under the winter coats and the spare boots.

The straps are that thick, braided hemp

that used to chew into my collarbone

when we walked down to the boat dock.

It still smells like the lake in August,

that damp, green rot of old wood and weeds.

There's a knot at the end of the drawstring

where the fibers have frayed into a gray fuzz.

I tried to pick it apart with my thumbnail

but it’s tight as a secret,

locked in by years of being soaked and dried

in the sun on the back of a rowboat.