Here you come again in those fake skins
(the bug-bright ones that hide your flabby meat
but not your horrifying unwebbed feet
and freakish lack of wings or shells or fins)
for yet another season of misdeeds:
you’ll thrash in me while trailing oily ooze,
shriek louder than a blue jay with the blues,
ride funny hollow logs at crazy speeds—
smashing the frogs and turtles in your way—
then climb in slower logs to hoodwink trout
with phony flies before you yank them out
and fling them back to fool another day.
But trust me: sometime when you’re far from shore
and lightning hits, I’ll even up the score.