You row slowly, pulling
with your narrow shoulders,

your punt moving through crud
on Lake St. Clair:

sewage from a cottage, roused mud,
a tall beer.

You do this daily now, in 1938.
Because it is all you have told me,

it is all I can think of you doing,
or like to,

when your insides touch my finger
through this rubber glove.

:: Phil Hall, in Going for Coffee (1981)

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