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.

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