Two old boys lit out to the lake
with pontoon hearts and a shared
chum bucket–two rods between them
on a little boat that listed left
then right. Each took an oar 
and paddled til their tendons ached
too much to fish–the sun threatening
high overhead–an inevitable 
burn.

They took turns blaming each other
when, let’s face it, they were both in control
of the direction the water took them. 

How many beers they guzzled before
the fall. And true, there were moments 
where one or the other stopped moving 
the boat at all. Who could blame the water
for moving its way south, like water does.

What can be saved from this listing ship?
Not much. Two old and bald-headed sinners
who’d been here before. The poles
and their hooks.

In a spite, one dumped the chum
into the lake just to watch the other’s eyes
bulge. He threw out the oars, too–left them
stranded–as he waved his buzzed hands
at the shore and the other dozed–
as he always seemed to–as if

it were all some foolish allegory
and not their lives, 
as if it were a simple
fishing trip.