I was fly-casting aspersions
into the fetid waters
of Lake Polyester when
a squad of bankers
bum-rushed me
and knocked me about.
“Stay off our land, drifter,”
they said. I let them say
it twice more, for practice,
and then said, “This isn’t
your land, and I’m not
a drifter.” They said Oh
and ran fast to find
legal counsel. Several
women studying their
own voluptuousness
waved to me from
across the lake. Sunlight
on their curves and
globes became a
sermon, and I believed.
hans ostrom 2013
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