The Wake Poem by Peter Neil Carroll

The walleye on shell-rock sand
attracts a buzz of blue-bottle flies
flickering around the gills. The fish
I ate last night roiled my stomach.
Here lies its cousin baking in sun.
Two more come bobbing into shore,
pushed by the wake of a speedboat
spitting blue exhaust. The current cares
as little as the sailor, as the sand
on the beach. But the lake smells
fishy. I guess the walleyes swallowed
more toxin than I did. Only flies feast.