Sacrificial Poets

It’s Friday, August 11th.

Poetry fishing.

I’ve come up dry and wanting.

The lure of the 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,

slunk 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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