The poet read a poem about a lake in New Hampshire.

Family trip, nothing shady; a wife by his side, dog

and daughter in the back seat. A happy poem.  I drove

my daughter to her college in New Hampshire. Off her meds

it was car lockdown, make sure doors were child-proofed,

no jumping out on I-91. The poet speaks idyllic.

Fishing in a lake, throwing back the catch. Playing

checkers on the porch in the mist of the White Mountains.

I couldn’t get to the hotel bar fast enough after dropping off

my drama. There was always a breakup from

the last semester. Dragging her to the dorm,

I made sure there was enough Xanax for the

both of us, a Hallmark moment. The poet talks

about going to the ice cream factory, buying

a Vermont Teddy bear, snuggling with his

wife under an LL Bean blanket. I snuggled once

with a baker I met in the parking lot of the King Arthur

Baking Company Store. He had a sack of flour over

his shoulder. I swooned and was doomed. More than

dough rising, he was a happily married man

out for dessert.  I bolted down the mountain. Stopped

by state troopers they told me to pop my trunk. Looking

for illegals from Canada, they only found a trafficked

poem written by a poet about a lake in New Hampshire.

Vicki Iorio is the author of Poems from the Dirty Couch and the chapbook Send Me a Letter. Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, poets respond on line, and The Fem Lit Magazine.