Micah Daniel McCrotty
SKIPJACK
After twenty-five acres of corporate
lawns, he paused from mowing
under a short ginko tree to take a pull
from a gallon jug and shade
his neck against summer sun.
He watched a man emerge from
the front office, ghostgrey suit
misplaced by heat and distance,
knew by his pace and gait the man
would ask him to leave, not to tarry
on land without his claim. He thought
to mention throwing hay for a great
uncle’s friend as a boy where
the lower parking lot now lay,
how during excavation his father
helped remove handmade bricks
from a toppled chimney. But once
the man drew near enough and began
to speak, clean shaven jowls
opened into a river’s mouth wide
with rip-rap lined coves, skipjack
bickering in afternoon light,
their tick marks a steady stillness
like bluff-built lake houses
leaning into gently eroding shorelines
