At the End of the Dock: A poem by Doris Lueth Stengel
A dock is a summertime thing in
Certainty of ice that comes with
demands removal from autumn cold
Ritualistic replacement by men in
ignites celebration of summer's
in explosions of cannonballing
Tan legs launch sealslick bodies
from corduroy runway into liquid
Ecstasy-flung towels decorate its
Boats rub its comforting side,
Old feet stand next to bare wiggly
cast lines rigged with Rapalas or
Fathead minnows naively seek
in pseudo-safety of plank shadows;
while nearby schools of perch and
circle, learning survival tactics.
Dreamer toes dangle, tempt nibblers,
test temperature for total immersion.
Deck chairs anchored above gentle
hold readers of Michener and Frost,
seat viewers for redripe sunsets
played on panoramic skyscreen.
Olympic platform awards gold
fashioned of flickering fireflies.
- Doris Lueth Stengel