Camp Zatarain

Poem by Timothy Murphy

Near to a windowless, collapsing hovel

I plant my decoys in the durum stubble.

Two birds swoop in.  I shoot the fall’s first double,

which Alan, awful punster, called a dovel.


Camp Zatarain boasts eighteen types of tree

and fruiting shrub, as near as I can tell,

a cattle pond, a wild artesian well,

its fountain bubbling in a grassy sea.


Long since, this farm was one sodbuster’s dream

of paradise.  Here Steve and I have come

each spring to hear the mating sharptail drum,

playing our small parts in our Maker’s scheme.


If I’m let out of hell just once each year,

I’ll come back home and use my hall pass here.


American Arts Quarterly, Fall 2013, Volume 30, Number 4