Done foresaw cottonmouths snarled in reeds,
spring gussied up in lilac finery.
A brief rain glistens upon hickories.
For rain, read sunspill; for glistens, read blisters;
for brief, read all the livelong day, sugar.
Dark corner of the whitewashed room,
so bored out your gourd you start to dream
of a lazy rope swing over the river,
bra straps snagged under a finger,
frog jelly spilt out its mason jar.
You know the shadows’ll want their cut
cut out the heart of them black-eyed susans.
But sing hallelujah, the outboard’s caught.
Now let’s get us some catfishing done.
Temple Cone is the author of four books of poetry. The newest, Guzzle, is due out this fall from Future Cycle Press. He is a professor of English at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland.
--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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