Steve Petkus

Backs straight, from the legs, they lifted 
the new iron wood-burning stove 
off the tailgate and set its 400 pounds 
on the concrete floor in the shed. 
They rested on the grass and shared a beer 
before tying the canoe to the top of the truck. 
 

The new iron wood-burning stove 
they lifted from the truck. 
 

Securing the canoe was no breeze. 
Without a padded roof rack, 
they had to trust the truck’s aluminum cap. 
Lacking the proper tension cords 
for mooring the ends to the bumpers, 
they settled for scratchy, mildewed rope. 
 

The new iron wood-burning stove 
they lifted from the truck 
and decided, for now, to leave 
under a tarp in the shed. 
 

On the way to Lake Iowa, the canoe flung 
left and right, stretching out the knots. 
With each new bend in the road, 
the oscillations broadened, 
the bow at one point clipping 
a speed limit sign, its bullet-dented shape 
twisting in their wake like a spatula. 
 

The new iron wood-burning stove 
they lifted from the truck 
and decided, for now, to leave 
under a tarp in the shed, 
which, once installed, would heat 
the whole place for practically nothing. 
 

They fished Lake Iowa, caught nothing 
worth keeping, the problem being 
they’d forgotten to pack nightcrawlers, 
which on the last trip had nailed 

five big bullheads and a few decent bream. 
This time out, they hooked a pair of tiny bass 
on doughballs fashioned by chewing pretzels 
and drinking, for spit, from a Thermos 
full of sour mash and coffee. 
 

The new iron wood-burning stove 
they lifted from the truck 
and decided, for now, to leave 
under a tarp in the shed, 
which, once installed, would heat 
the whole place for practically nothing, 
and on which they’d cook a mean 
flapjack, if and when they got 
that bit of rust off the eye plates. 
 

They left Lake Iowa, already late. 
They came around a curve and, 
apart from two oncoming cars, 
they both felt and saw looseness, 
a mocking slack of rope 
first dancing with the wind 
like it was nothing, 
then, having come completely free, 
rapping the windshield full and hard 
with a sound like a struck bird. 
 

The new iron wood-burning stove 
they lifted from the truck 
and decided, for now, to leave 
under a tarp in the shed, 
which, once installed, would heat 
the whole place for practically nothing, 
and on which they’d cook a mean 
flapjack, if and when they got 
that bit of rust off the eye plates.