Fresh off our last week-long shift,
the staff of Camp Minnewashta pulled a crate of Busch Limes out of the bushes by the lake
and passed them around.
The rock climbing instructor,
a hulking, mustached Scotsman who’d be fired before the month was over,
drank heartily while the arts and crafts specialist got high in the corner
(though she acted no more withdrawn than usual).
Empty beer cans floated beside us in the lake
while we waved at passing boats;
the white-blond CIT trainer made eyes at the shaggy-haired new counselor
and dads sizzled meats whose smells drifted across the beach.
Our Nature Specialist chainsmoked American Spirits
and said it was fine because they were all-natural,
but just that day he’d confiscated candy cigarettes
from the dangling lip of a seventh-grader.
The only difference between kid and counselor was nicotine
and legal permission.
We all looked more like children than adults
on that beach.
Tired, payrolled,
and abusing substances the moment after
an unforgiving week,
every bit as dumb as a kid puffing on a Lucky Light.
Here I’d like to reassure any wary parents
we were just as capable of handling ourselves
and taking care of your children
as anyone else on the planet.
That is to say,
not in the slightest.
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