We All Can’t Be Award Winners Now, Can we?

It’s 8AM and the sun is staring directly into my glass of wine
as it sits on an aged picnic table that, according to the words
carved into it, once sat RICHARD and SARAH who were going

I brought a new poetry book with me
hoping to make a friend of an author but
it is full of shit that I don’t understand and
down at the docks a group of Asian men are
trying to start their boat.

The book is by a famous poet.
It has won awards and has been
heralded by critics and has sold a kajillion
copies and since its publication it has relentlessly
garnered a heap of accolades and kudos and plaudits.
It’s supposed to be the best book of poetry ever
produced by mere mortals
but for the life of me I don’t know
what the hell she is trying to say
so I finally lay the book down and
turn my attention back to the Asian men.

They look like they’ve got it figured out.
After a couple more pulls
the engine comes to life.
They stand up and all cheer
comically waving their arms in the air
before they get in and take off
out onto the lake.

A dozen honking geese soon follow
skimming their feet across the still water
on passing.

A lone man fishes beside his truck.
The sun behind him makes him a

A Mennonite woman scolds her young
then brings her in close and caresses
her hair.

It is nice to sometimes
and pay attention
to the smaller things in life.

We all can’t be award winners now, can we?

Upon leaving
I pause at a trashcan
toss the book in
and go about my day
as in the distance a boat
full of Asian men
silently fish.


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