Water, Weeds, Who The Hell Knows

Dark Water, Weeds and Who The Hell Knows What Else

The lake is still cool this time of year,
though the path to the water
is baked, brown and thirsty.

We still go swimming, slathered
with the smell of sunblock, bug repellant.
We wear black inner tubes
around our middles and carry the six packs
(instead of wearing them like we once did).

At the dock, I jump in feet first,
the shock of cold ends a "whoop!"
and gradual pleasure. The other two,
Tony and Harle are not as brave
(or stupid as they say), inch into a green lake,
stirring mud, with muck clouds following.

I'm already floating with ass in the middle
of the tube (and frosty can cracked open);
laughing. Their "whoops!" are followed by "jeezus"
though they finally make it out to me.

Time turns back and we are nine,
dog paddling to the drop off,
where we could never find the bottom
(Harle's always been a little afraid
but we pretend it's just dark water and weeds)

Tony's lost his beer, so I share mine
and we each earn a pleasant buzz
with fish, splashing, drunk on Tony's beer.
(Or so we think, we don't really know)
alcohol on sun on top of bullshit intensifies
the stupid talk, jesting insults fly.

Hours later, we wake, freezing, sunburned
and pruned with hangovers and
mosquito bites giving us hell.
We return, nine times three years (give or take),
to our jobs, wives and bills. The past lies
waiting in the depths of a lake and three little boy's
imagination of who the hell knows what else.