On tiptoe, my palms against the smooth wood paneling,
my fingers clutching the cool aluminum frame of the
roll-out windows that will soon be a factor in many tricycle
accidents resulting in minor head injuries, I can just
peak outside and see our dog, stretched on the splintery
deck, pine trees dropping their straw-like needles,
the little lake’s blue-grey waves, a dull-green fishing
boat anchored in the slough, sun bleaching the driveway
sand; hear the buzz of the screened-out mosquitoes,
a distant rhythmic splash; smell fish and sap, gardenia
blossoms and outboard-motor fuel, the last of which
will many years later, when the trailer is gone, the trees
have been cut, and the dog has gone wherever good
dogs go, remind me always of my late uncle skiing.
Note: This is the result of an exercise I did in a workshop conducted by Ben Myers at the Nimrod writers’ conference in Tulsa, Oklahoma, October 2015.
T. Allen Culpepper