Wax On

Every time I hear an acorn rat-a-tat-tat on the roof, my mind turns to the boat under its sleepy cover in the driveway. Those rolling nuts of doom always find a way under the cover. They’re like guided missiles in pursuit of nefarious ne’er-do-wells.

They come in through the vents in the canvas cover, or bounce off of the casting platform, ricochet off the garage door, make a beeline around the cover straps and slowly roll onto the nonskid. And then they sit there till I use the boat or they end up in some corner