The Folks in Fayetteville

By Carl Boon

awake to flags on their devil-strips
and omelettes in their pans. Marques Rudolph
hauls twelve empty beer bottles
to the recycling bin and thanks God.
The sun is shining. It’s a good day
to remember. Before the picnic,
he’ll cruise Lake Wedington for bass
and wait for his wife, who’ll be there later
with an arduous cargo of chicken wings
and hamburger patties, six bags
of Famous Dave’s Potato Chips, four tubs
of macaroni salad, and her sister’s baked beans.
With bacon. Even if the bass ignore
his good-luck green and white spinner,
it’s a good day. On the lake,
in the shadows of Culbertson’s Cove
and with coffee in his Thermos,
he’ll recall his grandfather, gunned down
by a sniper’s round in Bastogne
in July 1944. Through some extravagant
series of tragedies, he waits for small-mouth
beneath a pin-oak felled by lightning,
waits, and rolls tobacco. Suddenly,
near the chattering squirrels
and rising herons, he takes no pride
in anything he’s ever done.

 

Carl Boon lives and works in Istanbul, Turkey. Recent or forthcoming poems appear in Posit, The Tulane Review, Blast Furnace, JuxtaProse, The Blue Bonnet Review, and many other magazines.

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