Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal

Passing by a Day

Daniel L. Glenn

My bare ass on shaded-cool sand is the crux of my master plan.
With the calming soft hand of a river bank resting on my shoulders
sharing my admiration for a troupe of sun-bleached-white turtles
watching the sky's threat of peculiar spasms from a bobbing log.
A Zebco tip extended across a split-tip shaft of scavenged drift wood,
uncaring whether the catfish wants to free the drowning worm,
lies next to prone feet
and unneeded shoes
that only serve to protect fresh feet on concrete
from shearing on the broken glass of parties
of those upriver who work five days in a stasis controlled by man
and for two days drunkenly toasted the smiling of Apollo upon their naked chests
and the virtues of naughty Aphrodite upon their nocturnal breasts.
A laden Igloo beside me lies open to aluminum exploitation,
coughing out cold doses of an elixir not so far removed from the waters I watch
carrying the cypress flotsam down to the campfires of the weekend natives.
The river is a silent audience to the distant cacophony of song birds
and angry woodpeckers hammering out an existence against the protests of stubborn oak.
Explosions from beneath the placid eddies all around
only raises the ire of the nuanced bass hunter
lazily awaiting his turn towards prominence in my psyche.
By the way!
The only boss to answer to today?
That angry patch of rain clouds passing by to the right.


© Daniel L. Glenn

Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal ISSN 1554-8449, Copyright © 2004-2012