Wading in the river,
the water under sixty,
the air over ninety and no shade,
quakeys suggesting change,
salmon pods finning in the black bends
flashing golden sides
under banks of gneiss,
their mica flecks flashing
in the early afternoon sun,
I stand along the shallows
in shorts, no shirt,
just a vest packed
with plastic boxes,
while rental canoes pass
filled with nubile girls
in space-age thongs
waving paddles with scarlet tips,
grinning lasciviously,
my gonads pressed
so hard to my backbone
I can't move, standing there
nodding dumbly like a paper mache dog
in the farback window of a fifty five Chevy.