After the Storm

I stood at the edge of Lake Erie at the end of my dirt road and thought about fishing poles and egrets. I’d asked Mary Elizabeth if she thought we should go to Walmart and buy some of those fish out of the aquariums. We could drop ‘em in the mud puddle that rivaled the great lakes, and fashion us up a cane pole. She indignantly replied that those fish were pets, and they were not for eating.

With a sigh of contrition, I gave up fantasies of deep fried glow fish, and remembered I still had a six inch melt from the Subway in my refrigerator.