I was fly-casting aspersions
into the fetid waters
of Lake Polyester when
a squad of bankers
bum-rushed me
and knocked me about.
“Stay off our land, drifter, ”
they said. I let them say
it twice more, for practice,
and then said, “This isn’t
your land, and I’m not
a drifter.” They said Oh
and ran fast to find
legal counsel. Several
women studying their
own voluptuousness
waved to me from
across the lake. Sunlight
on their curves and
globes became a
sermon, and I believed.
copyright 2013
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem