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.
Once had been vaudeville showplace.
D.W. had staged a blizzard there.
Opened the back doors behind the stage.
Let it blow in.
would have drawn birds
as to a winter feeder.
Plaid suit jacket.
Greased back uncut male-pattern balding.
He had a thing for the candy girl –
she wasn’t buying.
Walk through subterranean catacomb
past dressing rooms
filled with moldering treasure:
Onto the stage to open curtain.
Up to the projection room
to learn the tells.
Back again to close after credits.
begets forgettable Western
degenerates to Massage Parlor something.
Into owner’s lair
interrupting abortive attempt at slap and tickle
offering up my twenty-minute notice.
I learned how easy it is to exchange
one mistake job for another.
dVerse – Poets Pub Poetics: Even Monkeys Fall from Trees
CC has us fessing up to a mistake (ours or another’s) and how it all ended up golden (my paraphrase). Come join us and spill the dirt; you never know what will take root.