Senior year we made a movie
of the Odyssey, and the lotus-eaters (friends
of bluegills and box turtles) lived
on the north shore of Spring Meadow Lake.
We were innovators, method actors.
We were weary Ithakans.
Our feet shuffled over the dry brown earth,
our armor clattered thunderously when we
fell asleep, thralls to the strange flower’s spell.
We slept. Time was short.
When we woke we brought a pouch
of the potent veil (a Ziploc baggie of
“oregano”) to the Cyclops’ earthy lair. Tumbling
with the terrible monster
in the dark we tasted the lotus-leaves
again, but time was short.
(“You guys work tonight?”)
Our jackets sheep-skins on our backs,
we crept into the waning sun, Ithaka-bound
over dusk-red seas, the bed of Kevin’s tiny truck
an ocean-worthy shell.