On a riverbank strewn with line bait and tackle, under a midday sun on a polyethylene lifeless stream, amid litter of goodyear, mcdonald’s, red bull, and nestle’ three friends sit listless drinking excessively. Sit taunting one another to cross in their shoes, cool water’s ankle deep and for whatever reason, only claptrap in trees there that reveal an old flood, throw stepping stones out that splash back and sink then–Truth be told when one stays back to guard the beer and whiskey, it’s cotton balls, she cries, asshole, he yells, don’t wear it out. And so it goes, laughter hurts, river flows lazy, sun wanes, it’s time to go, slim jim wrapper thrown, crystal balls is cold….

David Summerfield