a place called cornelius
The summer was shorts and sandals. Trying to fish an alligator out of Lake Norman – Jo swore she saw it on the boat slip. Billy swore he’d catch it.
A Cape Cod with a white picket fence. A lawn, mowed before we rolled out of bed.
Speed boats. Jet skis and clear blue. That little strip of motorway that cuts it all in half. The man who drove his boat clear across it – the Urban myth.
We spent hours not playing golf. In wide-open warm.
Bone idle relaxation. A party at a Lineman’s house.
Muddy water coves where drunks got drunker and tried not to drown. We went there too. When they weren’t around. When we looked awful from exercise sweat and couldn’t be bothered. But drunks are clever at finding places where you go to not be bothered.
Dissertations left undone. A trunk full of wet towels and sand. Two girls I haven’t seen since. One I’ve seen only twice.
It wasn’t a yacht on the Mediterranean. But it was good.
