Abandoned wheelhouse,
hot humid day.
Captain of the ship (a boat with a shade awning) is on the shore of the lake
smoking a cigarette.
The crew of two (the wife and the daughter) are lugging the lemonade and the beer and bag of sandwiches and snacks through knee deep muddy water
to ankle-deep
to wet sandy feet
to the blanket he laid down on somewhat soppy Bermuda grass.
The flies on alert,
the mosquitoes’ flight-pitch elevating,
a puff of smoke disorients them
but only momentarily.
“You shouldn’t smoke!”
comes the call from just up-shore,
from a kid with a stick poking holes in the mud.
“It scares away the bugs,” says the captain with a stain-toothed smile.
The picnic is ready.
The cigarette is stubbed out.
The eating commences.
The ants began marching
when the blanket went down.
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