I'm on the boating lake with Sean Poem by Jack Underwood

I'm gently rowing and the birds look sewn
to the surface of the water as it undulates to the sound
of Sean talking beautifully about something
I don't really understand. But all I'm picturing
are brown paper bags with little grease spots near
the bottom seams that have recorded the way
sausage rolls have touched them, or the thin waists
of dogs as depicted in medieval hunting frescos, or
a cherub's fat little hand gesturing
to a vista where smiling families are meeting
to picnic with the animals that God
has also saved, or I'm thinking about
the mechanics of bagpipes, the legs and arms
and the fat belly and the long neck with its holes.
This has been the best day ever. Sean smiles.
He's wearing shorts, and so am I.
It's sunny! Mine are so short
they may as well be underpants, and I still
don't understand a word that he is saying.