It’s Friday, August 11th.
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.