By: Cooper Shea
you had to walk down this huge, leafed hill to get to it
and the water was green but the sound was great
a sweet, lowdown sound of stir rushing
I’d pull up my jean legs and walk to the middle
let the water run around me
and feel the rocks and mud and twigs and everything under my feet
I don’t think the crick is there anymore
I think it is dried up, now
and that only makes me a little sad
I told this to a newer friend
got through the whole story
and I thought maybe it was beautiful
maybe a little
and the guy listened the whole time and was very respectful
but after he just said: you know it’s pronounced creek, right?
I just looked at my feet
fuck that guy
Cooper Shea is a poet from Iowa. He is a recent graduate from the University of Northern Iowa and contributed to the literary magazines Inner Weather, Periphery and Sun and Sandstone. He’s just...he’s trying, man.