The sun shines bright on Agate Bay.
Lake Superior is cobalt cold,
And the wind never stops,
Hurrying the little waves,
Onto the red pebble beach,
Which hurts bare feet.
Two girls in bikinis walk
With eyes downcast,
Looking for the pretty stones.
Indifferent to the gelid wind.

Crows flock in the graveyard
Of St. David’s cathedral.
We walk under the gnarled trees.
My wife takes my hand,
“Have I told you I love you today?”
She does that.
No, but you did wipe crow ****,
Off the back of my neck,
With a tissue
From your purse.

She climbs
She leaps
And crashes
And climbs again
Such energy
She almost flies
Such courage
Til a manic scramble
Across a lap
A grabbed tail
This is a boy cat
Oh.
You can get him nuetered.

I was supposed to be
A warrior,
The son and heir,
To the old crusader.
But motivation is not in our genes,
And a man’s determination
That the next generation
Will be different,
Sometimes wins out.

Mars was bright that year,
And reflected off the lonely lake,
As red as the belly of my upturned canoe.
I stood naked by the lapping waves,
Washing off the stale bug dope,
In the smoke from my campfire,
(The mosquitoes, too, were bad that year.)
The accusing war-god eye
Looked up from the dark water
And asked
“What if you broke an arm out here?”

An old man
Sat on the rocks
And scowled
At the boy with the blue hair
And baggy shorts
Who was swimming in the rapids
Daring the others to jump in.
The old man
Remembered,
And smiled

The gas can can't stay in the car or the tents,
So it stays by the post where the lantern is hung.
It cools in the shade and the vapors condense,
'til the flat sides cave in,
And the gas can goes "Spung".

Then the sun slides around, and warms it anew.
The pressure increases like an inflating lung,
'til the roiling and boiling gaseous stew
Pops out the hot metal
And the gas can goes "Spung".

The day settles out and the night does abide,
The fire burns to embers and the last song is sung.
The wind in the holler cools down the tin sides,
The pressure drops off,
And the gas can goes "Spung".

Then, late in the night when the moon shines above,
And none but the whip-poor-will raises his tongue,
The silence is heavy and the air does not move,
No reason calls,
But the gas can goes "Spung".