it’s sunday somewhere
so this week I’m starting early
making my own bloody mary mix
on a late saturday night
secret ingredient bone broth
for some reason I’m thinking
the trout must be biting at prairie park
and though it’s eight hours ‘til sunrise
it’s only an eighteen minute drive
to my favorite fishing hole
november two thousand twenty
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listen carefully
the birds in the air are many
and you’re missing so many of them
in another life you were
a cardinal or a crow or a sparrow
going about your fabulous business
as if there’s no tomorrow
but of course you don’t
remember those days other
than a song or two or three
that for some reason keep
challenging your long term memory
tomorrow it will be monday
which means you’ll be fishing again
casting your line at lock & dam thirteen
and forgetting about the past
only focused on the task at hand
july two thousand twenty
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it’s past midnight
but the night is still young
well lit by a fattening moon
we meet by chance at the ranch
you arriving unannounced
me home on spring break
a few grain belts and half pack of
winstons all that’s left
we’re not exactly using our inside voices
but whoever happens to be here
is fast asleep on the second floor
it’s so much easier
to keep the lights on than not
easier to fuel up in the kitchen before
hitting the road for the river
a quick stop along the way
a twelve-pack and smokes
and whatever it is the man says
the catfish are striking
february two thousand twenty
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temperatures hovering around zero
for a good ten days now
it’s mid january and we’re so ready
to walk on ice
you don’t have to go out too far
these days to touch the sky
it’s all about augering through
letting the water breathe again
one little inspiration at a time
there’s nothing here to miss
except a warmer sun
and that southern breeze
the kind that keeps the raptors
from circling lower and lower
with each catch we do a little dance
and pass around the flask
perhaps like they once did
some five hundred years ago
in this sacred place
january two thousand twenty
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and then there were just
the two of us
yielding to the god of wine
on the back deck
minutes before sunrise
the rest said
they were going down to the river
to see if the catfish were biting
that was at least a couple of hours ago
they took with them the last of the red
but I said do not worry darling
we’ve yet to open the last of the white
october two thousand nineteen
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my father grew up near the spoon river
[named after a fictional illinois town]
and only lately have I wondered
if as a boy he’d fish for channel cat there
something he loved to do in his retirement
at lock and dam 14 on the mississippi
here I stand hundreds of miles away
casting my line into the wapsipinicon
[named by the chippewa after aquatic
plants they called ‘swan potatoes’]
my eyes focused on the shiny spinner
my mind rewinding and fast forwarding
I’ve caught and released countless cat
this hot and humid july afternoon
summer sun finally muted by the treeline
a subtle reminder that despite the heat
relief will eventually come my way
as I retrace ten thousand steps back home
july two thousand nineteen
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it was a matter of time that your life
became mainly a flashback
like a character in a dickens novel
stretched thin on a cold march day
it was a matter of time recollecting
faded images of a former self
one plodding alongside trout stream
aided by spear tipped hiking stick
it was a matter time accepting
the thought of looking back
plunging the blade through the ice
shattering what was once indestructible
and exposing a brand new world
february two thousand nineteen
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all rights reserved
we fished off the docks
overcast sunday morning
praying for a break
weatherman says
tomorrow should be better
once churchgoers
and earthworms are all
back at work
most of us don’t
give a damn
about day jobs or night life
let alone the cost of
living or dying
river keeps calling
finding ourselves responding
come rain or come shine
november two thousand eighteen
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all rights reserve
there was fish in the basement freezer
bluegills caught in the mississippi
taken home and cleaned
filleted and carefully placed in ziplocs
each dated by way of sharpie
each day a story unto itself
each story a small piece of the life
and times of a solitary man
long removed from
an ordinary working life
if you don’t move you will die
he told his son
carefully stepping down the stairs
unlocking freezer door with key
he kept hanging on a nail
fearful the fish might one day escape
and find their way back home
september two thousand eighteen
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we sat on the dock
feet dangling and bobbers
bobbing atop quiet wakes
ushered in by a dying sun
succumbing to giant moon
we spoke occasionally
about deficits and taxes and
royal weddings
steering clear of world wars
and foreign matters
for the most part though
we kept the conversation
to a minimum
drinking the king’s ale
waiting for mackerel to strike
may two thousand eighteen
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sitting on narrow part of bridge
we fish from the bottom
at three-thirty in the morning
having closed the bars
we now chat side by side
unexpectedly witnessing
waxing moon blooming
while most people dream
we resume this conversation
started decades ago
at last coming to a head
suddenly realizing
past years made no sense
and most likely never will
may two thousand eighteen
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all right reserved
We’re supposed to be on the road by now
but Ted can’t seem to find the car keys
and DeSalvo’s rolling joints in the next room
sitting Indian style in the loveseat
I’m busy stuffing my backpack with
chocolate bars and graham crackers
and marshmallows and assortment
of individual servings of breakfast cereals
and Frito Lay snacks
Ted is arguing with his folks who
never seem to grow old
his mother with a dirty dishrag in her hand
his father smoking Marlboro Reds
and lambasting his son for chores undone
I’m in the garage now
stocking the cooler with Bud heavy
and whole milk and boxes of Sunny D
carton of 18 raw eggs and Oscar Mayer bacon
Let’s go let’s go I yell but nobody hears me
DeSalvo’s now out of my sight
most likely licking the edge of the rolling paper
eyes smiling and marveling
at his own imperfections
Hey Ted where the hell’s the ice I yell
but I don’t think he heard me
but I do think I heard his dad slap him
upside his head
Finally he comes out all red faced
DeSalvo right behind him smiling
checking his pants for a Bic lighter
Everything okay I ask
Yeah Ted says let’s get the fuck out of here
we’re taking the Lincoln Continental
march two thousand eighteen
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the weather turned midday
as a warmish sun gave way
to coldish clouds and variable winds
nearly knee deep in blackish
backwaters
rainbow trout suddenly start
striking at mini-jigs
hand and eye react instinctively
despite scattered thoughts
racing past
slippery rocks in river bed
patience is like an acquired taste
(you tell yourself)
best served in solitary confines
the cool waters gradually
drop in temperature
yet you continue to wade
further away
dead set on an eddying pool
silently calling your name
november two thousand sixteen
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all rights reserved
it’s only a matter of time
before the next city gets sacked
it could be yours whether or not
you like being alive or dead
you could be sitting in a mosque
or a church or a temple
or in a gazebo in a meadow
or on a deck overlooking a lake
or out on the river fishing for trout
or out on the sea fishing for men
or inside a corner tavern
open for business on any given sunday
everywhere there are people
inhabiting this place
putting two and two together
questioning the laws of nature
ninety-nine plus percent certain
killing has nothing to do with survival
september two thousand sixteen
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all rights reserved
how many miles we traveled
far from shore I do not know
the early morning city lights
flickering atop gentle waves
skyscrapers sinking into their
self-induced holes as
madmen rush to resurrect them
the fish were striking at an incredible
pace and the captain had trouble
resetting all the downriggers
while house flies persistently bit
the whitest of legs
reminding the youngest of men
everything comes with a price
at the end of the day as the boat
drifted back to shore
there were no women or children
welcoming them back home
there were no lights
no music streaming from pipes
but the streets
the streets they were weeping
streets littered by madmen
already destroying the next city
june two thousand fifteen
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there is an empty dumpster sitting in a
driveway down the street
it was delivered there yesterday I said
what the hell are you talking about she said
that dumpster got dropped off last friday
I exhale some sort of harumph
and step into the next room
quickly standing squarely in front
of the bay window
dumbfounded and staring at that thing
tomorrow will make it a week
I say to myself
almost certain tomorrow is friday again
I wonder if I they need any help over there
I yelled back toward the kitchen
silence
not even a “what-did-you-say”
I wonder if I should go fishing
I tell myself
and try to figure out exactly why
a perfectly quiet neighbor
is throwing away his life
may two thousand fifteen
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all rights reserved
