Author Joseph Heywood
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Gates Lodge Number Nine
[Grayling, August 20, 2013]

Birds crushed together in tag alders along the river
Like Chinamen in a slum long ago in Hong Kong,
Compressed into suet bricks, gawping cacophony
Audio only, nary a one in view, anywhere
Just sound and guesswork conjure different images
While Orvisinians and Simsites stroll the cut lawn in waders,
I remember Holly bringing river stones to throw, grinning
Through broken teeth, her brown eyes sparkling anticipation
(despite Rusty’s consternation) and later, Ruby less a rock dog,
More a what’s-in-the-room-to-eat-pal dog, always hungry.
Buster too, now gone to the great birdhunting fields in the sky,
The only dog I see this night is a loose Doberman
And frufy women in celluloid sandals with painted toenails
Redolent of dead epochs still fueling cash- fat egos
Riverie ending with an angler with a fly in his upper lip,
The experts want to cut it out, push it through, no clue
This technique went out with the middle class, twenty years back.

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