There is a sameness to this float,
The identical start, the ritual
Of hauling the boat against the current
Over loose cobble to the shadow
Of the bride and throwing
Our legs over the gunwales
As our guide roars,
Knock their dicks off, boys!
Cast, cast, cast
God rocks the boat
When we are flingedly flogging
The Au Sable with
Zoo cougars, dizzy blondes,
God chucks streamers with his soul
and the body follows
making the boat lurch and yaw,
left and right, sploonking the bow on smooth green water,
with the energy of
an LST plowing toward Omaha Beach,
his motion a storm
of activity, a relentless
metronomic nine casts a minute,
hour after hour.
Afterwards we wrap
his shoulder and elbow in ice packs,
make a fire in the Brown Trout Suite,
have a splash of Spanish sherry.
You think maybe
we’ll throw streamers tomorrow? he asks.
“I reckon (Note to Self: