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.