earl the squirrel calls himself a humble creature with a big furry tail
calling it a brown string of pearls to impress the ladies though he doesn’t know
what a pearl is, or has seen an ocean outside of old lady josey’s backyard.

earl the squirrel’s palate includes acorns of course and sometimes mushrooms
a few crickets, and on chinese night, rice noodles from neighborhood trash cans.
other times, he sticks his paws in the bird feeders, which josey overstocks for everybody.

earl the squirrel believes other squirrels are the real nut jobs, stocking up nuts
instead of eating them like downton abbey earls under josey’s back porch umbrella
before consequently combing for tree buds during winter, but forced to stomach bark.

earl the squirrel has a love/hate relationship with autumn. for he doesn’t feel his fur’s
thick enough (he’ll never say “fat”) for the upcoming cold, but is always enthralled
by red leaves and is a junkie for the pumpkins josey leaves outside for halloween.

if most squirrels are social butterflies, earl the squirrel is an anti-social wasp.
yet he only seemed to realize this when josey no longer came out to refill the bird feeders
and big-muscle humans packed up her things in trucks after the ambulance left.

earl the squirrel didn’t attend josey’s funeral, because he was scared of traveling
through the neighborhood full of cats and dogs and thus missed the departure
of the only human who acknowledged him among other creatures with a human name.

one past night, earl the squirrel saw one of josey’s neighbors drinking heineken
and taking some blue pills, wondering what they would taste like. but when josey left
he just wanted a pumpkin, and maybe some of that hot red water she made on sundays.

earl the squirrel now lives in the maples of josey’s son’s backyard where
about five pumpkins are left out after halloween for him to chomp down on and invite
other squirrels, chipmunks, groundhogs, robins and blue jays for an after-harvest feast.

and once in a while, as earl the squirrel stocks up acorns for next winter, he watches
josey’s relatives, now cooking that same hot red water on Sundays, and maybe hoping
they’ll leave a bowl outside or throw something away in the garbage one night.
                        

the wind picks up
as if wishing to carry
my whistling

loose lily pad;
a frog's former sunbathe spot
now a target for rock throwing

singing jimmy buffett.
would they finally bite
if i poured in my cocktail?

if fish think raindrops
are water striders
why no bites today?

they say
scars make you stronger—
midnight antidepressants

a loon cries out
as though angry with me
for an unanswered text

we get milkshakes after
we catch something
or nothing at all

a catfish
four hook lines in its lip
four extra whiskers

dredged lake;
worn grass spots
where fishermen’s seats were

back home
after hanging up the rods
we get jars for fireflies

summer nights;
our feet in the pool
toes on the moon