Dave Bonta's "Wake" is a tiny poem about being left with what's left over. The first two lines set up a double meaning: a ship's wake is the trail of disturbed water behind it, but a wake is also a gathering after a death. Either way, something has gone and only its aftermath is here.
The scene then narrows to a dock and a girl sitting alone. The poem never says who she is or why she's waiting, and that gap is part of its pull. We can guess at a farewell or a loss, but the text leaves it open. The speaker seems to have watched her until the light failed completely.
The last lines turn inward. Darkness has hidden the scene, yet the speaker is writing about it anyway, unsure of "what it is that / I now write." The mood is quiet, wistful, and a little uncertain. Memory and poem itself become another kind of wake: a trace of something that can no longer be seen.