Will Baskins

“I’m no poet,”
he always said
if you caught him,
pen between his teeth,
notepad in his lap,
basking at Blue Rock Lake.

And everyone would always laugh
and move on down the shore,
smiles on their faces,
dreaming of the treasures
in that small collection
of paper.

And when he died,
his notepad,
his latest chewed pen,
were buried with him,
still unread.

imae of two gulls flying over a stream

Michelle Muenzler drachin8