Grandpa drags me out of bed.
I growl at the cold that hits my skin
like a dive into the pond
he’s always talking about digging
behind the oak in the back yard.
“Lake monster fry like acorns,”
he tells me while he packs his jaw
full of Copenhagen and loads the boat.

Twenty minutes later my sweater’s wet
under the one dollar poncho
he always makes me refold
to save for next time.
There’s always a next time.
“We can buy fancy gear when we catch it,”
as if some kind of mosasaur swims
in this little reservoir next to the crappie.

I don’t even think there’s room
for one in the channel,
but I don’t want to spoil the mood.
Spiderwire runs out as we trawl
back and forth in front of the boat dock.
“Lake monsters can smell the grill.”
Sure enough, the burger smell from the
snack stand is pretty strong.

Five hours of this stretches the imagination.
Maybe I did see a giant snake
behind that peeled-paint pontoon boat.
Who knows? We’re out of crackers,
not to mention the Cokes and sardines.
“Better head in. Next time for sure.”
He laughs and I sigh. What game
is he playing with me here?