the man at the corner
stands with daughter in hand
ready to put her on the bus
flash of yellow and fists of smoke
and the man is alone,
he waits a moment
backfire, woodpecker trill,
chainsaw whine and hammer fall,
he looks at his shoes
when he walks away
he leaves a hole
that hangs there all day
it will be a hot one,
hotter than july.
but hell, the water’s turned
and it’s almost over.
a cigar, a lighter.
not too many of these left.
the old lady’ll put a stop to it
soon enough.
bluegill today, maybe crappie,
no musky here anymore.
these bass eat the hell
outta everything that moves.
yeah, soon enough
the rains’ll begin,
chill will get in the air,
and all the talk’ll be football.