On Tuesday

by Robert VanderMolen

Spotting a van logging

Through beeches, where you hadn’t
Realized there was a road

Staring from your canoe, water lilies
And heron, stumps on the bottom

A murderous quiet
The surface of the lake like skin


Well, she did look a little
Like Mia Farrow, though taller

Being seated by her current boyfriend
Beneath a yellow overhang

The sky dim as old Plexiglas


It’s tough to remain focused when you’re
Uneasy. The models appearing

Underaged in the wrinkled magazines
You notice buying rum in the party store

The men on stools, farmers, seem to
Have been sitting there for forty years

The ticking of thermometers
When the sun clears out of the mist