straw-hatted weed-chewer
in oily overalls,
pawn shop rifle across his lap,

must mother it like a hen,
nestle on it
til it can hatch . . .

comfy in an aluminum canoe
pole cast out to a murk
where cold fusion happens,

where tadpoles
were never so seemingly alive
teeming like thoughts,

swimming everywhere
like the prospects
of unlimited dollars.