LEROY'S TEMPTATION
by Michael Puttonen


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.







Copyright 2019 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.