poetry by j matthew waters

Crawdads in Indian Creek

Maybe I’ll eat or maybe I won’t
I heard the chicken wings at Edith
Lucille’s are to die for

If you look straight up
you’ll find mostly seventies
album covers and license
plates representing most of these
forty-eight contiguous states

[with a little luck
you just might find your own
initials or birth date carved
right there on your table
or adjacent wall
or bench or wooden floor]

Out back the parking lot is full
or sometimes not
and a few hundred yards beyond
maple branches hang low
over Indian Creek

september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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