Camouflage

I got a hot dog at the little shack but didn't
 eat it there because three guys not even legal
couldn't carry on a conversation without sprinkling
it with words that made them, to their ears,
sound tough. To me, they sounded even younger,
little boys impressing one another with language
they hardly understood themselves. And so I walked
across the way and sat beside a campfire with
some good ole' boys polite enough to pass the time
with anyone who ventured by. Listening to George,
who needed his front teeth but mentioned flying home
and had his name embroidered on what looked
to be a costly fishing shirt, I asked him what his
business used to be, before retiring to center of
the state. Worth millions, made by building farms
for rich men's horses. He and the man with such
a pretty dog who eyed my dinner hungrily,
and the youngish friendly woman whose cups
were running over (literally) out of her tank top
and the man who'd had a few too many beers were fun
to listen to, just pleasant conversation on a warmish
evening at a fish camp in the middle of the parallel
universe. But another man sat down who seemed to
know the others and (I thought) would be another
asset but he'd left his manners home in his RV
and even though he said "I'm sorry" when George
pointed out he shouldn't talk that way, as I walked off,
it was the proper time for me to leave. And as I left,
I saw what looked to be an owl, but was a cat.
You cannot always tell just
who and what you're looking at, at first. A millionaire
may look like someone rough around the edges,
a man who looks more put together may show
himself to be a cad. An owl may want to venture
close enough to people that it poses as a cat.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014