A Squatter on the Lake

A Squatter on the Lake 

Four white plastic barrels
Fit inside a wooden frame,
  Lidded with old plywood
Since bleached gray by sun and rain

Yesterday while swimming,
I found a whole dead sunfish
  Encrusted on its deck,
Sun-baked tough as leather,
His fish face grimaced hard,
  He was left there with a purpose, 
He as someone’s calling card

And today, there it is,
That orange footed lake float squatter,
  Squawking rudely on my float 

  “It’s my float, it’s my float,”
   He calls the Seagull-ettes to know,
  “It’s my float…”

Not twenty yards away,
But I can hear the neighbor’s talk,
  You are too close, yet not enough
For me clock you with a rock