Tonight I sit outside
on the deck of my (granddaughter’s)
houseboat. Herrington Lake and
the descending sun make a
herringbone pattern on my eye lids.
Swallows under the bridge
pilot fighter their way to nests
brimed with fledglings. Who needs
Caspristrano? Or Glen Miller?
We have a small community here 
of the more permanent houseboaters
called “The Dix”, named after the river 
in which we sit. We meet every Tuesday
in one another’s vessels for what we call
“coffee & toffee.” We’re like any tourist
town, in summer our numbers swell
with Huckleberry wannabes. 
My great granddaughter, Penelope,
stayed with me this weekend to stir
my writing, she thought I might give
up after “Dr. Hue”. She wants to know
my mysterious story. I say it’s only so
because she knows so little of it,
and I wonder what she’ll think if
I tell it. I don’t really think much of 
“confessional poetry” or this whole
endeavor. We’ll see

The sun goes down behind me 
in a collapsing sphere of red, the 
lake stills itself in its Sunday night
abandonment, Penelope has gone
bowling with her Indian boyfriend,
I’m ready to take the edible she has
left me and go to bed in my watery