Lurking near the bottom,
I drift lazily among
the rotted tires and beer cans,
algae-tinted sunlight reflecting
off the bullet-shaped bumper
of a two-tone '56 Packard.
It's a warm Sunday morning,
and I am stuffed to the gills
with stale duck bread.
(The featherheads never
go after the sinkers.)
Then here she comes
slicing through the water,
twirling and twisting
in a sexy, but obvious, way.
Uh-uh, Leroy, I tell myself,
don't even think about it.
So I try to ignore her,
try to count tadpoles and snails,
try not to think about her
smooth, red, translucent skin
and how it would feel as I
slurped her long, soft body.
Lord, she's got me wiggling!
A big cloud of muddy silt
blooms all around me,
and next thing you know
I'm darting out after her,
my adrenaline shooting
like a bottle rocket.
I'm getting closer and closer
but she's rising fast, and just
when I'm almost there,
my mouth wide as Kansas,
we break the surface
and I can only watch as she
sails away on a gossamer string.
She doesn't even look back
as I body slam the water.
Damn, I say to myself.
Like she thinks I couldn't see the hook.
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