The Pup Tent
Ken Wuetcher

Orange sides with gray top.
Yellow ropes and orange stakes.
Front flap with screen door.
Smelled funny like pungent plastic.
I lie on my sleeping bag after eating popcorn
and drinking Orange Crush in a brown bottle.
Moonlight made the ceiling a movie screen
with soft blue light shining through.
Shadows of tree leaves swayed in the wind
and lights of nearly silent cabin cruisers provided
me with some entertainment.
Sometimes big bright search lights of noisy barges
went by churning the muddy dark water.
Waves hit the docks or broke on the sandy shore.
Occasionally wolves howled a melancholy song.
Dogs barked and owls hooted.
Sounds from the night washed over me,
made my bones tingle.
Except on that first scorching summer night:
No air in the little pup tent,
hard to fall asleep.
Sweat poured off my body and the
sleeping bag got clammy.
Not like I dreamed of when I looked through
the Sears catalogue and saw the pictures
of the tents with everyone smiling.
They were
having a good time while roasting marshmallows,
singing songs and telling ghost stories.
The pictures made me want to buy a tent and
be a part of the fun,
sleep out every night.
Not tonight.
I wanted to get
out of that hot box and
go back inside into the air conditioning.