Ode to Sticky CrickIn the sticky, canoe beer paddled with medoggedly browning, the creek groaned withthe million year magnolias. Andrew rolledin the bottled bottom, I slipped into the mudto push, "gumbo, gum-bo. Gum. BO." I namedthe creek new, Gars slidout of the ferns chasing after dragon flies. Andrewadded his stomach soup to our gravy boat,drowned by birds all chuckling arrowspointed down the middle channel, pointing tono boats, calm watered. Green arms constrictedthe world down brook we took."Bet Samantha is downto her panties now son, and we ain't seein'a bit." Andrew muttersall apologies around his stomach. Truth is,we had a better view than a pair of sun drenched ta-tas,cause the world down Gumbo off the ‘sticky tastedlike I'd dreamed a woman would, smelled likewe never had dreamed up a bomb or a plane, in the million voicedFrantic; trees crowding around the sun like it'd stay forever.