Sacrificial Poets

It’s Friday, August 11th.

Poetry fishing.

I’ve come up dry and wanting.

The desire to net an elusive sonnet
fails to compensate for the wrong lure.

Three of us on a tri-hull
trolling Lake Michigan.

The cooler is stocked
with angst, metaphor, and several cases
of Heileman’s Special Export.

If I have to tell you that it’s a beer,
you’ve never struggled for your art
as a poet.

Sunburnt and giddy,
posing on the pier with our catch —
Cooper, skunked the day long,
slinks to a surreptitious book store.

It’s a hell of a thing when a poet
pawns off store-bought filets
to his family.

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