10-cane rum and I’m all
sun inside. Children
in shrink-wrap-tight
swimsuits. Cigar boats
burning by. Our aluminum’s
hoist-high in dry-dock,
tonsilled in the mouth
of the boathouse,
its conked outboard
sidesaddles the stern
like the burnt-out fan
of a disbanded boy band.
I’m one gin from oblivion.
Children, little Pol Pots
divvying up all the fun.
They get some and then
some. Rising for a quick
dip, I eye those little shits
wading in the sun-shivved
shallows.
Resurfacing I face
the strand where the Children
now stand at attention
in class-portrait stance
kneading pea gravel
in their Q-tip fists
until little Angela says,
We’ll give you a head start.
And from the tip
of the tongue-depressor
dock, I spy my high school
sweetheart turning down
the lakebed so I can pull
the bedrock over my head
before they find the time
to turn to teenagers.
This appeared in the September 2010 issue.
