It was sufficient to be our ocean,
Though in reality it was a tiny pie of a lake, shallow and weedy
The shoreline not chock-a-block with cottages or docks,
And dotted with miniature moraines serving as caves or cliffs as need be.
We were, at this point in time, a crew of pirates,
Marauders of the fiercest sort, without any regard for mercy or morality
Taking aim at sailboats-cum-galleons ostensibly bursting with jewels and doubloons
(Though invariably just outside the range of our cannonry.)
We were, on this occasion, traveling en masse, cutlasses brandished, pistols drawn
To surprise and lay waste to a landing party of opposing rogues
(French and, as such, especially devious and untrustworthy.)
We stepped into a brief clearing in a thicket of weeds,
Happening upon Mikey Kellerman’s sister, shorts down to her knees,
Lying underneath some older boy unknown to us
Performing some odd calisthentic we’d not seen in gym class.
We stayed for some moments, possibly but not necessarily unobserved,
Hidden in the tall grass as they grunted, cooed, and occasionally yelped
Not unlike restless, mischievous puppies.
One of us whispered Maybe we should…
But he was shushed almost immediately.
After what seemed like an interminable interval,
We withdrew to plot further strategy.
We did not reconvene for some time afterward,
Due a typical early-August three-day soak
(Courtesy of a low pressure system lollygagging lugubriously up the coast)
And once things dried out sufficiently for us to get together again,
Mikey Kellerman insisted we play cowboys and Indians from then on.