All afternoon the ski-boats whomp
and roar, bow-waves curling the lake’s cut skin.
Ecstatic, the dog yelps, leaps from the slanted dock,

swims after her ball. Osprey call and pileated call,
loon crying again and again from its shadowed
cove: lake as asylum, where you go

when you’re losing your mind. Then evening,
magenta scarf tossed over the day’s blue lampshade.
Time for a drink, thank God, time for the bugs

to devour us in earnest. And dinner, at last,
and children’s bedtime, and almost a moment
of peace, when the idiot kid next door

screams a leftover bottle rocket into the trees,
then another, cracking like sniper fire
every five minutes or so. But who doesn’t love

an explosion? What we’ve always done best.
Our savage religion. Our smoking answer to everything.

Jon Loomis,  is the author of three mystery novels and two books of poetry. He teaches English at UW-Eau Claire. Find Jon’s books at tinyurl.com/nb7m6l7.