FLASH FLOOD IN THE COUNTRY

In the shape of a spout
by a fountain in Halifax
pissed off
by a flasher in the country
during a flash flood
when all we wish for
is to catch salmon,
in an aviary corner
a shadowy man
creeps up by the tent
by a blazing anger
of the sun
we hide out
in my parked car
yawning by wrathful windows
this serpentine creature
creeps up on us
with dirty hands
of a distinct hour
posing without references
only to a body part
with a mechanical
maniacal gingerly grin
fingering his frankly
poorly stuffed shorts
from an underwear,
with a plate glass mind
watches us as he circles
around the car
without boundaries
in the liquid silence
as acid rain pummels us
from oxidized bodies
we call
the Canadian mounties
who always get their man.