Fishing
The dock creaks beneath his feet,
Agreeing that it is too early.
Pond water laps at the muddy banks,
Shooing us from nature’s territory.
He rolls up the sleeves of his everyday button-down.
Towering oaks separate us from the house,
Which felt miles away.
We sit on stiff, pollen-covered chairs
That summon up his allergies.
Out comes his simple, white handkerchief
Embroidered with H.H.
His fishing line glints in the morning light,
Ending in a thin hook that he catches in his red hands.
An open pack of hotdogs sits in a cooler
(Right next to two bottles of caffeine-free, diet Coke).
He tears off a piece and pierces it with the hook:
The frugal man’s bait.
He baits my hook and hands me the smaller pole.
We toss our lines and wait.
Retching frogs, blooping fish, whizzing dragonflies,
The smell of sunscreen and bug spray.
There’s a shocking tug on my line and
My Dale Jr. fishing pole bends past my comfort.
I pull a fish out of the water.
It is too strong, too slimy, too alive.
He places it in another cooler.
“We’ll save that f’r dinner.”
We toss our lines and wait.
The day closes, and we head home.
We visit the fish’s home a few weeks later.
The dock creeks beneath my great-grandfather’s feet.
We toss our lines and wait.