By: William C. Blome

Fishing off the low bridge in the dark,
I’d guess it’s close to midnight,
and I know your window’s five rows down,
three boxes across, but I’m watching
instead the corner lights on another building
flash on-and-off green and red,
and I’m happy as a clam in muck
I did so drop-dead bad in high school
college was totally out of the question
for my dim-bulb ass. Here, I don’t throw
a single sheepshead back into the water:
they all taste great fried up in butter.