In this dark pond of superficiality,
Waters occasionally churned by the collapse
of some old tree,
Not far around the bend,
Not far behind the house,
Yet farther than one can see
The old man is dishing at the false bottom.
The escaping bubbles send
No warning. Depth is only a word
Where trees stir the murky waters
Constantly. But the dream fish
Seem to struggle at his bait.
About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.